


Eagles in Truro (Alt: That filthy one that snuck in a plot.)

by Vukovich



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Animagus Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, BAMF Molly Weasley, BAMF Ron Weasley, Background Character Death, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Bisexual Male Character, Blood Magic, Butt Plugs, Casual Sex, Coming Out, Dildos, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Draco Malfoy & Ron Weasley Friendship, Explicit Consent, F/M, Group Sex, Healer Draco Malfoy, Hufflepuff Draco Malfoy, Iambic Tetrameter, Lawyer Hermione Granger, M/M, Masturbation, Mild S&M, Minor Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood, Multi, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Poetry, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, STI/HIV Discussion, Safeword Use, Seer Draco Malfoy, Shameless Smut, Shibari, Sloppy Seconds, Slow Burn Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Supportive Ron Weasley, Threesome - F/M/M, Writer Draco Malfoy, trigger-redacted copies on request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 283,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vukovich/pseuds/Vukovich
Summary: It's 2007, and Hermione, Queen of the One Night Stand, has returned from Australia for law school.  But alas, where are all the eligible men?Auror Potter and Only Adult in the Room Ron are down for a good time.Malfoy, is just... Malfoying.  Sexily, despite Harry's self-denial, professionalism, and internal conflict.Smut, poetry, Basilisk dick jokes, high art and low blows, angst, fluff, puns, smut, angst, political intrigue, a national banking collapse, SMUT, Quidditch League anarchy, and near-pornographic descriptions of truffle consumption.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 208
Kudos: 119
Collections: Wheal Elvan





	1. Strikeouts and Cockshots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Intro letter_ : Preface for the poetry that bookends chapters.
> 
> Hermione, you're too old for college house parties.  
> Hermione, should you trust Pansy and Luna's recommendations on men?  
> Hermione, should you type messages you don't intend to send with a cat so close to your keyboard?  
> Harry, why would you send that picture?  
> Draco, what the _fuck_ are you eviscerating and why?  
> Ron, why are you the only competent adult?

_Dear Reader,_

_We are pleased to present the Platt Foundation Award for 2021. Please find enclosed your copy of ** _Writings in Exile,_** by D.L. Malfoy._

_The Platt Foundation Series of publications is selected and curated by a collection of magiohistorians and scholars worldwide._

_The Foundation endeavors to share perspective and knowledge with the broader goal of inspiring harmony in the magical world by sponsoring the publication of such works._

_The following statement from the founding descendants of Yardley Platt describes the purpose and mission of the organization:_

_“May we hear from those hidden in fear. May we read the stories written while wailing. May we hear, and may we listen, and may we learn.”_

_In understanding,_

_Connie Urban  
Board President, 2018-Present_

_Archibald A. Blotts VI  
Publication Committee Chair_

_Platt Foundation  
18b Diagon Alley  
Charing Cross Road  
LONDON  
WC2H 0AW  
UK_

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
The Bard Reveals

And so, I’ll write  
Rondelets of the End of Days  
And so, I’ll write;  
Of wars and men, of greed and spite  
While battles rage and loves lie splayed  
No one records this bloody haze  
And so… I’ll write.

DLM 1998 Wiltshire  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

“Hair… whoa…” said the very drunken man in Hermione’s lap. The thud of the music in the packed house drowned him out.

“What?!” she belted. This party wasn’t so different from what she’d expected based on her new neighbor’s description, but the crowd was so _young_. Granted, only the young tended to drink heavily on weeknights.

“Your hair is just like, whoa,” he slurred. Sweaty hands groped her curls and she frowned as she took a swig from her bottle of water. He was rather fit, but entirely too young. And likely too drunk to be worth the effort.

“Could you maybe not touch it?” she bit. “And find somewhere else to sit?”

“But you’re so fucking hot.” He yell-groaned. “In like, a sexy professor kind of way.” 

His weight shifted, and he was suddenly kneeling over her lap in the armchair. His jeans made a lovely presentation of a package at chin-level, but his words had been clear enough.

“I’m twenty-seven,” she retorted. 

Not convincing, she told herself. She probably could have been a professor at Hogwarts by now if she hadn’t bolted for Australia right after NEWTS.

“I’m eighteen,” the man replied. He’d started making a little show of moving his hips in time with the blaring music.

“I’m… done,” she grumbled to herself. “Go find the other teenagers, or I’ll knock your mark down this term.”

The boy’s eyes widened and he stumbled off her lap. With a quick glance around the room, she had to admit to herself she was probably the oldest one in attendance by five years. That girl in the flat across from hers who’d invited her had not only misled her, but had also buggered off somewhere. Lovely.

Hermione sighed and wandered out. The inebriated man-boy didn’t follow her, thankfully. A chill ran up her arms in the outside air. Not cool enough yet to raise goosebumps, but enough that she was aware of the light sheen of sweat from the heat of the party.

Cardiff in August was strikingly similar to Perth, albeit headed in entirely different directions as far as weather. Nine years without a real winter, she thought. 

Nine years without snow.  
Nine years without proper British sweets.  
Nine years without friends.  
Nine years without the entire magical community.

But nine years in Perth with her parents. Nine years helping them remember her, even if just a bit. Nine years and two Masters’ degrees.

That was nothing to sniff at. Especially not when the Ministry itself had seen fit to track her down for an internship. A rather well-paid internship, she reminded herself. And they were paying her way through Cardiff University’s law program. Not a bad deal, at all.

It had only cost her… nine years. A rather solitary nine years, she had to admit. Socializing at a Muggle university had been more difficult than she’d been prepared for. _Yes, I moved to Perth to keep my parents from being prosecuted for my disappearance because I erased myself from their minds to protect them from a genocidal wizard. Oh, and the weather. The weather here is lovely._  
Not exactly the kind of introduction her classmates and roommates could hear, so she’d stayed quiet. Quiet and alone, for the most part. Quiet, alone, and quite lonely.

A few times a month, she ventured out on a weekend night to a party or club to scare up what could be had for quick male companionship, but that was all. Hermione Granger, Queen of the One Night Stand. Golden Girl of Window Exits. Brightest Witch of Fake Phone Numbers.

She glanced at her mobile while she walked, torn between investigating Cardiff’s small magic district or going back to her new flat. It was still early, she noted with a shrug to herself. Maybe Cardiff’s district had a good wizard pub or something.

————————————

Harry had never wished for someone to firebomb his locale before. It had happened, sure. Auror life being what it is. But he’d never actively _wished_ for it. But he’d also never watched a woman monologue about spinning Kneazle hair into yarn and knitting a jumper out of it, either.

His mind wandered from the thrill of explosions to Hermione. He wondered if she still had Crookshanks, and what she’d think of knitting his hair into a sweater. His hand drew his mobile out of his pocket to check the time. Merlin’s tits, it was still too early to call it a night and excuse himself.

He was going to have to find more funny pictures of ginger cats to send to Hermione. She’d never once responded. Not in nine years. There was an excellent chance he was sending cat memes to a total stranger, but who didn’t love cat memes?

He scrolled through the settings on his mobile, turned the volume up, and tested several ringtones in rapid succession. A dozen heads turned to glare at him, but immediately turned to fawning admiration when they saw it was the Chosen One.

“Sorry, Gi…” he trailed off. _Fuck_ , what was her name? “…eez, I gotta go. Auror stuff, you know.”

“Oh!” she chirped. “Okay. I’ll owl you tomorrow. This was so fun. I can’t believe I got to go on a date with _Harry Potter_!”

Harry threw back the last of his pint and left, proud of himself he made it out the pub door before he grimaced.

—————————————

Night hunting was a terrible fucking idea, Draco reminded himself. Terrible, exciting, and often productive. 

Existing outside his wards at all was a terrible idea, but especially at night. The cowardly shit-stains who liked to send rigged owl messages tended to have them delivered after sundown.

The body under his grip stopped thrashing while he eyed the moonless sky warily.

—————————————

“No, just a Quibbler,” she said, trying to hide her excitement.

Cardiff’s district turned out to be an owlery, a public Floo, and a newsstand. In an alley.

And that was all. Not promising. The Floo was little more than a large woodstove with the front grate ripped off.

She’d really thought the capital of Wales, home to hundreds of thousands of people, would have a decent magic district. At least a Gringotts branch and a robe shop, but no.

She lingered under a streetlamp to peruse the Quibbler issue, but more to revel in being under a Lumos-enchanted light. Her wand and magic use had been almost non-existent aside from contraception charms and the rare cleaning spell. Some things were too important to trust to Muggle technology. Or too tedious.

An ad for _Muggle integration services_ caught her eye.

_Tours, advice, and social networking for the busy Muggleborn and Muggle-raised.  
Muggle life skills courses available for the witch or wizard adventuring away. Squib-taught!_

The phone number listed below the ad even said to call or text. Very progressive.

“Oh, why not?” she muttered to herself. Social networking was just code for speed dating, wasn’t it? And was that so different from prowling around house parties and clubs?

**Hi, I’m interested in your social networking services for Muggleborns.**

She pocketed her mobile and wandered to the Floo. Coin-operated? Very odd, she thought. A glance in the owlery window was equally uninspiring. What kind of owlery in a major city was closed at all, let alone before midnight?

Her mobile buzzed, and she checked it.

_**Wonderful! Name and immediate location?** _

Immediate location? That seemed odd, but perhaps they were going to send her a packet of forms to fill out.

**Hermione Granger, and I’m in the magic district in Cardiff at the moment.**

The elderly woman at the newsstand snorted loudly and muttered to herself, asleep on a stack of tomorrow morning’s Daily Prophets. Hermione pitied whoever bought the top one. Free drool.

The battered woodstove clanked to life, spewing out green flames followed by a tumbled mess of fabric and blond hair. The disheveled pile righted itself, and a figure emerged.

Luna, or someone approximating Luna, stood before her. And she was wearing… everything. Just simply everything. 

A brown chemise with scattered gold sequins under an embroidered vest in black and white, and a voluminous ruffled skirt in swirled jewel tones that would embarrass a peacock. 

Her hair was a tornado of small braids with trinkets and baubles woven in, wadded into a mess of a bun that appeared to be held in place by a small army of disposable chopsticks.. It was quite something. And it was definitely Luna Lovegood.

“Hermione!” she squeaked, not bothering to brush the dust off.

“Luna?” Hermione asked, rather redundantly, now that she thought of it. The ad was in the Quibbler, after all.

“It’s really you, Hermione?” Luna asked suspiciously. “I haven’t known dugbogs to text, but it would be like them.”

“I… No, it’s me,” she stammered.

“Good!” she pipped. “I don’t mind if they eat all Neve’s mandrake, anyway. They’re rather pitiful when they’re hungry.”

“Uh… huh.” Hermione grunted.

Maybe this hadn’t been the best way to reintegrate into wizarding society, she thought. Finally texting Harry back may have been smarter. Supremely awkward, but maybe smarter.

The man had been sending her cat pictures for years. How he’d gotten her mobile number, she had no idea, but she suspected Ministry involvement. All he’d ever sent her was an introductory text followed by dozens, possibly hundreds by now, of pictures of ginger cats doing silly things.

“So!” Luna interjected into dead air. “You’re home! For good? For work? For holiday? For matchmaking? For a roll in the hay?”

“I-“ Hermione started, but was cut off by the rumble of the Floo. It belched to life again and spewed out a tangle of pale limbs, dark hair, and a posh pantsuit.

“Salazar’s scrot, Lu,” spat a husky voice. “Glad you left that wonderfully vague note, but you could have waited till I got back from the loo. I thought Neve dumped your pasty ass again.”

Luna pulled a mocking face at the immaculately-dressed figure of Pansy Parkinson, who was busily dusting herself off. Pansy’s dark eyes below thick bangs skimmed Hermione head to toe, and she fidgeted under the scrutiny.

“Luna.” Pansy stated flatly. “This does not look like an _emergency Muggleborn intervention_. This looks like a sad Granger who struck out at a Muggle party.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but found she really didn’t have a comeback for that. Parkinson wasn’t her favorite person. Not by a long shot. But she never could fault her for her wit.

“But it could have turned into an emergency,” Luna stated definitively. “It could have become urgent.”

Pansy huffed and slid her hands into the pockets of pinstriped trousers. “Well, Granger. What’s the emergency? Knickers on fire?”

—————————————

“You know, Har. Someday you’re gonna come barreling out of that fireplace to find me mid-wank. Maybe you’ll check first, then,” Ron said with a paternal finger wag.

“The day you wank in the Burrow kitchen is the day I stop coming to Sunday brunch,” Harry said, stepping out of the Floo.

“Stalemate, then,” Ron said with a nod. “How was the date with… Ol' what's her name?”

Ron rummaged around kitchen cabinets and cobbled together a loose pile of biscuits and crisps. Molly had started stocking Muggle treats years ago, specifically for these occasions.

“I want to say ‘Gina’, but I may have made that up,” Harry said around most of a biscuit.

“As long as she’s not a redhead with a penchant for Quidditch,” Ron muttered.

“Ew, Ron.” Harry snorted. “That’s just sick.”

——————————————

If Pansy Parkinson smirked any harder, her jaw was going to fall off and roll back into the Floo without her, Hermione thought.

“So, just the men, then?” Luna asked, looking skyward. Hermione momentarily worried Luna was going to divinate something from the stars. 

Pansy quirked an eyebrow at the question. “Do tell, Granger.”

“Pans, you’ve only dated Muggle women for years,” Luna chastised. “Be nice.”

“Uh, yeah, just men,” Hermione said slowly. “You date Muggles? Seriously?”

Pansy shrugged, the shoulder of her suit jacket giving the gesture a sharp edge. “Not that many tolerable witches.”

“Pansy’s helping me research the Muggle practice of running for sport, as well as Muggle dating.” Luna gasped in sudden realization. “Hermione! May I interview you about dating Muggle men? Relationships and customs and the like?”

She winced a touch at the question. “I didn’t really… date. Just… sex.”

“Nice,” Pansy huffed. Hermione wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic. Most likely.

“Oh, well, anyway,” Luna said, eyes leaving the sky. “The men. Not many of us stayed after the war, and the few who did paired off fairly quickly.” 

Luna continued, “It was a strange time. You weren’t the only one to travel. But not many others have come back.”

Pansy thumbed a chip in her nail polish. “Harry’s still here, and he’s single. But you knew that.”

“I didn’t, actually,” Hermione replied. “All I know about him is that he thinks I want pictures of cats. I didn’t even know if he had stayed after the war.”

“Auror Potter emigrate?!” Pansy feigned, fingertips splayed over her chest. “England would fall!”

Her joke fell flat and she looked to Luna. “Who’s even left, Lu?”

“Slim pickings, unfortunately. Harry. Ron. I mean, if you left things on good terms with Ron.”

“I... We didn’t have much to leave, so I guess we’re probably on okay terms,” she said, embarrassment niggling in her mind. 

She and Ron had managed to sneak a few kisses their last year of school, but then everything had exploded. Leaving for Australia without so much as a goodbye had been in poor form.

Luna looked at Pansy. “Blaise?”

“Inadvisable.” Pansy mumbled with a frown. “Wrongbottom?”

“Rather taken!” Luna exclaimed. “And I told her you call her that.”

“You _didn’t_.” Pansy gasped. “Shit. Lu, I didn’t mean-” Pansy sputtered, a scarlet blush rising.

Luna waved her off. “She thought it was hilarious. Threatened to officially change her name to Neve Wrongbottom for all eternity. She does have a sense of humor about it, you know.”

Feeling invisible, Hermione checked the time on her phone. As much as she did want to catch up with her old classmates, it was getting late, and she had a lot of important nothing to do.

“Oh, thank Salazar.” Pansy sighed. “You two okay?”

“We’re well, thank you for asking,” Luna replied primly.

“Just checking. Never know with you two.” Pansy grinned at her own jab. “Anyway. Stephen?”

“Gay. Ernie?”

“Still gay and now married. Justin?” Luna counter-offered.

“Also married. Hufflepuffs marry entirely too young,” Pansy said matter-of-factly. "Most of them, anyway."

Hermione’s heart sank. She could just make do with Muggle men again. It had been… serviceable. She’d gotten rather good at casting wandless contraception charms without men noticing. It would have been wonderful to not have to worry about hiding the charms, and her wand, and all the other little things. 

Maybe Ron or Harry would be interested, but she doubted it. Even if they were interested, she wasn’t sure _she_ was. So much could go wrong in shagging friends. Especially ones she’d abandoned. 

She wondered what they’d thought of her leaving and never contacting them.

Had they worried about her? Had they even missed her? Maybe they’d been glad to be rid of her. She knew she hadn’t been terribly pleasant much of their seventh year. But nothing about that year was pleasant.

No, she didn’t want to resort to old friends if she didn’t have to. 

“Maybe widen the pool? Surely you know some single wizards besides men from our year in school,” Hermione suggested. “Coworkers on the rebound? Hot neighbors? Ugly but endowed cousins?” 

Pansy and Luna each furrowed their brows in concentration. “Our Quibbler intern is single,” Luna said with a soft wince, “but he’s also 19.”

“Pass,” Hermione stated definitively.

“I’ve got a single coworker with an emerging drinking problem,” Pansy said, only half-sarcastically.

“Pass.” Hermione rolled her eyes. This was not looking promising. Maybe her only options really were her childhood best friends or Muggles. Not promising at all.

The woman at the newsstand had started snoring in honest, and it nearly drowned out the whisper fight Luna and Pansy had started.

 _”He wouldn’t,”_ Luna hissed.

 _”He definitely would have,”_ Pansy hissed back.

They went back and forth, and Hermione started to regret texting a number out of the Quibbler, of all publications. Free quibbling, delivered to the reader’s immediate location free of charge.

Luna sighed loudly at Pansy. “I guess it does depend on that.”

“On what?” Hermione grumbled, wondering if this whole evening was a waste.

Pansy grinned. “On what kind of relationship you’re looking for. Basically.”

“Oh, nothing serious. In fact, the less serious, the better.”

Luna shot Pansy a wary look. Pansy returned it with a grin. “Perfect.”

“Pansy, he wouldn’t.”

“If he bothers to respond at all,” Pansy said with a shrug.

Luna tapped her chin, thinking. “Hm. Perhaps.”

Hermione was damned tired of this dead end of a conversation. All she’d learned today was that she was going to end up asking her two best friends for pity sex. Doing so would likely ruin any chance of renewing a friendship with either of them. 

Or, she would continue sport-fucking Muggle men and hiding a huge part of her life while keeping them at arm’s length. Or, even more likely, she would have to survive an incredibly long dry spell.

“I’m not loving these options, ladies. So, try what?”

Luna opened her mouth to speak, but closed it. Pansy looked at her hesitantly. They both spoke.

“Draco?”

———————————————

The thing about livers, Draco reminded himself, is that they make an awful bloody mess when ripped out. Tasty, but messy. And only when fresh.

———————————————

“Ron, I’m taking all the crisps back to my flat,” Harry called from the kitchen. “It’s late, and I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Alright. See you for lunch at the one place,” Ron hollered back.

“Right. G’night, then.”

“Night, Har!”

———————————————

Hermione sat at her rather generic laptop in her rather generic apartment agonizing over how to send the least generic message of her life. How does one proposition Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, for casual sex?

Surely he was used to women hitting on him, but those women hadn’t known him most of their lives. They hadn’t watched him cry because he was homesick one day, and the next day cry at the prospect of having to return to said home. 

Other women could walk right up to Harry Potter and invite him to bed. They didn’t have to explain why they’d disappeared for nine years, never visited, and not even responded to the damn ginger cat pictures.

How does one maintain one’s dignity while making a fairly undignified request?

 _Hi, Harry! I’m in Cardiff for law school and I’d love to get together with you if you’re interested._  
Too vague. Delete.

 _Harry! Sorry I ignored you for nine years, but now I’d like to have sex with you maybe._  
Stupid. Delete.

 _Harry! I’m home, I’m single, and I’m ready to mingle._  
Terrible. Delete.

 _Hi, Harry! My pussy’s in Wales, but my fuck buddies are in Australia._  
Maybe too accurate. Delete.

 _Harry. I’m assembling a personal army of the best wizard cocks in the UK, and I want you on the team. Please submit application._  
Definitely undignified. Funny, though.

Ugh, nothing made her request feel less desperate. Muggle men were so much easier. They were everywhere, and it didn’t take much to get them in bed.

Crookshanks hissed at the window and bolted under the bed.

“Scaredy cat,” Hermione chided, as she went to the window. It had been so long since she’d received an owl, the arrival of the large brown bird had startled her, too.

She untied the note from its leg, bent down, grabbed a piece of Crookshanks’ kibble, and offered it to the owl. A carnivore is a carnivore, she figured. Crookshanks huffed his disproval of an owl eating his food, and hopped onto the laptop.

Hermione unrolled the paper to find a message from Luna:

**_Hermione, send me a text message to my Muggle mobile if you would like me to contact Draco. He’s rather reclusive._ **

**_Luna_ **

**_P.S. It was lovely to get together._ **

Hermione crumpled the paper and tossed it at Crookshanks, who watched it roll to a stop next to his paw, unmoving and entirely unimpressed. 

She had no desire to have Luna introduce her to men like some kind of slutty debutante. She was a grown woman who could solicit men for casual sex all by herself. She’d had no trouble in Perth, after all.

She’d stop by that owlery tomorrow and send a note to Malfoy. Luna’s judgement of him was probably sound, but her meddling wasn’t necessary. 

She and Pansy had made it seem like she should expect rejection from him, anyhow. Pity. He’d always been rather good-looking when he wasn’t talking. And she wasn’t looking for conversation.

She could work on what to write to him after she figured out what to say to Harry. And Ron. Ron seemed like the easiest of the three. Unless he was bitter about her having left without saying goodbye.

Crookshanks rolled on his back, stretching, daring any naive passersby to rub his belly. “I’m not falling for that, Shanks. Get down.”

The cat grudgingly walked off the laptop, and a fullscreen photo showcasing a very erect, rather large penis next to a hand giving a “thumbs up” filled the screen.

“Crookshanks! What did you do?!” she yelled. 

He wasn’t a typical cat, but looking up porn on a laptop was beyond even him. She sat down to figure out what he’d done. 

She didn’t recognize the picture. Or the cock. Or the thumb. It was a weird pose. Like this man was congratulating himself on having a penis. Not that it wasn’t one worthy of some kudos.

She’d remember if she had saved it on her laptop. There were plenty of hidden files on this computer, but no dick pics with a thumbs up.

Hermione scrolled up to see what else was… 

**Harry. I’m assembling a personal army of the best wizard cocks in the UK, and I want you on the team. Please submit application.**

Oh, Merlin’s great gaping arsehole, she thought.

“You terrible, perverted, filthy, effective cat. You propositioned Harry Potter. I hope you’re happy.” Crookshanks replied by lifting his leg and emphatically licking himself.

At least Harry had responded positively. Very positively, in fact. But how does one respond to a _solicited_ dick pic? She’d gotten unwanted ones on dating sites, which had been the end of that foray.

She had to send him some kind of message after an exchange like that. This was no funny ginger cat meme.

**Wow. Um. Thanks.**

_oh shit r u drunk? Was that a drunk text??? Ohshitohshitohshit_

**No. I’m not drunk.**

_Okk bit bold tho. U ok?_

A furious lecture on his abuse of the English language was brewing in the back of her throat, but it could wait. She scrolled back up to look at that cock again. As far as dick pics went, it was worth a second look. Maybe a third. Later. Knickers off.

**I’m fine. I didn’t mean to send a message quite that bold. But I’m back home and, well, yeah…**

_single?_

**Very. And not really looking to change that part.**

_loud and clear. im off evry other weekend_

The lecture on punctuation and grammar was itching to pour out of her fingers like righteous magma. Shag him first, she told herself, and then you can rip into his language skills. Everyone loves a grammar check as pillow talk. She realized she’d been staring at the screen when a second message appeared.

_Im gona see Ron tomorrow. want me to recrute him?_

She scrolled back up for a third look. Maybe spelling wasn’t a realistic expectation when a good portion of your blood flow was siphoned off into an impressive erection. But this conversation would need to wrap up soon for it to balance out this many errors.

**Why?**

_u said team n rons a team player_

**Yeah, that would actually be great, if you don’t mind. Seems like it could be really awkward for you.**

_nah. spit roasting tall women is akward_

**WHAT?**

_were not that tall so yeah furniture strategy_

**I mean WHAT as in WHAT have you been up to? And together? How? When? WHAT?**

_oh ya you bolted after NEWTs. Slytherin afterparty was insane. And then the first several reunions. and holiday parties its not called snogwarts for no reason._

The bracing irritation of his double-negative reined in her shock. He was right. She had left the UK immediately after taking her NEWTs early. But she hadn’t heard anything about reunions or parties. Not that she would have come back for them. Or maybe she would have, if this were an accurate depiction of a class reunion.

**Make sure I’m on the guest list for the next one. Wow.**

_eh theyve gotten kinda dull now that everybodys getting married and having kids_

**Oh, and speaking of Slytherin…**

_noooooooo_

**Luna and Parkinson recommended recruiting... Malfoy?**

Hermione seriously hoped that spelling the word “recruiting” correctly would sink in. He really ought to know better. 

But she was more worried what Harry would think of her for trying to contact Malfoy. Maybe he’d become a fine upstanding citizen. Maybe he’d come out the other end of the war reformed. Maybe he was still an absolute twat and Death Eater, to boot.

She wished she could pull that message out of the screen, shove it in her mouth, and pretend she’d never sent it. Setting the stage by telling him she might like to shag him but also their childhood nemesis may not have been the best course.

Maybe she should have felt out Harry’s opinion of Malfoy before announcing that bit. What if Harry knew things Luna and Pansy didn’t? He was an Auror, Pansy had said.

As strongly as she wished she hadn’t just told him about Malfoy, she knew all hell would break loose if it came up after the fact. Better to face the fire now.

_O I thot you were gonna ask about Millicent. n I thot Malfoy was dead_

**Luna offered to contact him for me, so he must alive**

Absently, she wondered if Luna would consider a ghost fair game. Not impossible.

**And I am going to ask you about Millicent, but not now.**

_he mihgt be back in Azkaban with his parents but it wud have made the papers_

Luna and Pansy wouldn’t have suggested she contacted him if he were imprisoned. That would be pointless. So he had to be out in the world somewhere.

**Ok. I’m going to try, but I don’t expect much.**

_good luck took the ministry five years and teams in russia to get the slippery wanker_

**But I’m me.**

_Troo troo_

Her patience with him had officially reached its limit.

**HARRY POTTER, YOU KNOW HOW TO SPELL.**

_Took you long enough, Hermione. I’ll let you know what Ron says tomorrow. We’re meeting for lunch. Enjoy the pic._

**I plan to.**

She turned off notifications and scrolled back up to his picture, setting the laptop on her bedside table. He’d actually sent her a picture. The Chosen Cock.

It begged the question of whether he’d already been hard. Very hard. Or whether he’d stripped down, as he appeared to be naked, and gotten himself hard just to send it to her. She wasn’t sure which was a bigger turn-on.

Had he been touching himself just now while he was chatting with her? Did he come while he was waiting for her to reply? Was he stroking his cock right now and thinking of her? So many questions.

Hermione threw her trousers over the back of the desk chair, shimmied out of her shirt and bra, and threw them on top of the trousers. She slid under the covers of her bed, taking a moment to rub her legs against the new, freshly washed sheets and revel in the smooth texture. She lay on her side and thought about Harry’s cock, examining the picture.

It was odd to think that she knew what the most intimate part of him looked like, but she hadn’t seen any pictures of the rest of him. Auror training was notoriously strenuous, so he had to stay reasonably fit. Pansy had mentioned that with a solid wink.

Maybe he’d gotten taller? Definitely filled out. Did he have chest hair? Maybe a lot of it, to match the mess that grew out of his head. Had he grown his hair out? Cut it short? 

What if he had facial hair? She could see him with longer hair and the beginnings of a beard. He’d probably gotten really tan not having to stay in a classroom all day. Tan skin with soft, thick body hair that skimmed down to that lovely cock.

Her hand slowly skated down the curve of her breast, raised goosebumps as it trailed the slight hollow of her waist, and settled on her hip bone. 

What would his touch feel like? His hands were probably rougher than hers, and hotter, and more urgent. Greedy, almost. Yes, Harry’s rough greedy hands teasing her body would feel perfect.

She slid her hand down to cup her sex and felt the dampness starting to soak through her knickers. Her other hand crept up to her breast to tease a nipple while she ran her fingers under the top edge of the fabric.

He wouldn’t be this slow, she didn’t think. He would be all heat and urgency and noise. Harry would be _loud_ , she was sure. 

Would he moan when he touched her and found her this wet? Would he yank her knickers off and plunge himself inside? Or would he inch them down and lick her till she begged him to fuck her? 

Ripping clothing off seemed more like Harry. And he wouldn’t lick her. He’d eat her like a man starving.

Her fingers plunged between her slick folds while her other hand pinched her nipple to edge of pain, but not quite. Her hips bucked up to meet the fingers circling her clit. It wouldn’t be enough friction for an orgasm, and she knew. She rolled over and slid her other hand down over the fingers still idly stroking her clit.

She turned her head to get one more look at his picture she shut her eyes. She imagined the wide head of his cock bumping against her clit, where her fingers were stroking, and then it would slide up as he leaned in, and slowly push inside her. It might take some patience to get the head in, but it every stroke would feel enormous inside. 

She thought of him putting his hands on the mattress on either side of her head, and starting to move, thrusting gently at first. And then he would drop down onto his elbows along her sides, and press her into the bed with his weight.

She ground her hips hard against her cupped hands, thinking of him sliding his hand down to do the same as he thrust in her in quick, deep strokes. Heat coiled low inside her, and she thought of his cock getting harder, his hips thrusting more erratically, his forehead resting on her back, his teeth nipping her skin, until he cried out, thrust deep inside her, and came.

“Fuck, Harry!” Her shout was muffled by the mattress, hips still moving in small circles, rubbing her clit against her fingers, each pass causing another wave, another tightening. Her hips gradually slowed, and she pulled her hands up out of her knickers. 

It would have been a much better orgasm with a hard cock inside to grip as she came, but it was still good. She crossed her forearms and laid her cheek on them. Her laptop had gone to sleep. She sighed and closed her eyes.

Soon, Harry Potter’s photo-worthy cock. Soon.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
In Taking a Lover

“Take me now,” softly moaned.  
“But where?” gently intoned

Love, where I’m going,  
no one comes.

DLM 2001 St. Petersburg  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	2. Feathered Fuckery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione will never ever speak of how she summoned this Patronus.  
> No, Ron, Harry's not into hot grannies, you dolt.  
> Draco gets spanked with a newspaper in a library by an old lady.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Rubble, Sweet Rubble

Granite strewn, like castles hewn.  
Always house, never a home.

How fitting then,  
To build a den,  
To shelter one impugned. 

DLM 2004 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************  


“ _Merdasse_ , Matilda!” Malfoy hissed, knees threatening to buckle under her weight and grip. “I swear to all that’s unholy, I will make you into _coq au vin_ someday.”

Blood dripped down his shoulder as her talons dug in. She scrabbled for a stable grip, puncturing down to the muscle as he gritted his teeth and wrapped a towel around his arm.

“You are the cruelest fucking bird I’ve ever met,” he accused. “Sadistic bitch.”

She ruffled her chest feathers, taking the compliment as she hopped onto his forearm. A soft whine sounded as he Healed the damage. He would have to pay for that with at least a solid nap. He hoped he dreamed of eagle noodle soup. Fuck.

She’d brought him his weekly Portkey to Azkaban. Five of them, this time. Why Robards thought he wanted to visit that often, was beyond him. 

These were all Muggle baseball cards, which seemed like an inherently bad choice for not being attractive to Muggles. Especially children. If a Muggleborn child with any ability picked these up, there’d be no end to the chaos.

She chortled at him for a treat; a bad habit she’d picked up from the Ministry owls. He held out a piece of fish, but she wouldn’t take it, bobbing her demand.

“Fine,” he groused and held the fish in his lips. He lifted her on his arm to take it. “Slutty bird.”

Food gifts were the realm of mating courtship, and she was a pushy girl. Gulping down the fish, she side-stepped to his wrist and unceremoniously bit the back of his hand, drawing blood.

“Ahh, you cunt of a bird! Go!” Malfoy yelled, flinging his arm out the window. She cawed ruefully, and took flight. _”Salope.”_

——————————————

“The full replacement cost of the owl?!” she shouted. “It hasn’t even done anything yet!”

The owlery attendant flinched. “Yes, ma’am, Ms. Granger. It’s just that... We all decided, the owleries... that is, that because our owls never return from a delivery to him, that we’d need to take that into account.” 

The small man’s eyes were made wider by thick glasses, causing him to blend in with his menagerie. The whole building reeked of stale piss, and she couldn’t wait to leave.

Hermione’s anger dissipated. “What do you mean the owls never return?”

“Just that. Every time an owl is sent to him, from anywhere, it disappears.” The man blinked up at her. She had half a mind to ask him if _he_ could carry a note tied to his leg.

“Do the messages reach him?” Depending on the cost of the owl, maybe it was worth a try.

“We don’t think so. I’ve no reports of a reply,” he said leaning forward over the counter. “I’ve heard tell of one wizard in Liverpool who paid for ten owls, one after the other, all with the same message. Nothing.”

“Oh, well, that’s certainly out of my price range. I guess I’ll try something else,” she slouched.

“Best of luck to you, girlie. And a thanks to you for not sending one of my owls to its grave today,” he pipped, entirely too cheerfully.

“Oh, uhm, you’re welcome. And… I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said grudgingly.

————————————————

“Holds under ‘Malfoy’, please.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the worn carpet at the library counter. The young woman lingered expectantly. For what, he couldn’t tell, but didn’t particularly care. 

Waiting, he watched a group of preschoolers in a circle. A dozen wiggly bodies enraptured by the telling of a story by one of the children’s librarians. Pairs of clear, focused eyes followed her hand through the air as it wove a tale to life of an elephant sitting on a bird’s egg. At her signal, the children chorused, “One-hundred percent!” and burst into giggles. If any Muggles deserved to mysteriously wake up with magic, he figured it ought to be librarians.

A firm swat on his arse made him jump. The rolled up newspaper was familiar, but by Salazar, she was sneaky for her age. 

“Just going to walk right by, hm?” a voice croaked.

Turning, he assessed his attacker. Today’s shawl was a hideous muddy orange and probably wasn’t intended to trail behind the wearer like a garish wedding dress train.

“Not my fault you hide behind your paper in a corner like a wanking pervert,” he said with a smirk, which earned him another swat. 

For being all of four feet tall and eighty pounds, she packed quite a wallop. He didn’t know much about Brownies, but he was grateful she was only a quarter. A full-blooded Brownie with a rolled up newspaper might be lethal.

“Three spankings, and this becomes a date, Eira,” he warned, a slow smile blooming. 

She pretended to wind up for a third swing as the woman returned to the counter with his books and returned his card. “Here you are, Mr. Malfoy. Have a good afternoon.”

Eira turned to shuffle back to her table, and he followed. He really had walked right past her. But she was between him and new books, so it was understandable.

She groaned and he heard her joints crack as she sat heavily back down in her chair. “You really should use a different name, child. Truro’s not as isolated as you think.”

Her admonishments had softened years ago after he reminded her that a wizard with an unutterable name had gotten him here.

The chair across from her scooted out for him of its own accord. “Show-off.” Gripping the armrests tight, he lowered himself into the seat. Twice, she’d whipped the chair out from under him and cackled so loudly that they’d drawn a small crowd.

She wasn’t wrong about the risk of using his name. It was how she’d ended up his unofficial Ministry liaison.

He slipped his shoes off and tucked his feet up under him, eager to dig into the small stack of books. A ripple of guilty pleasure flowed through him for doing one of many Things Malfoys Do Not Do. Shoeless in public. The horror. He slid small silver-rimmed reading glasses from his pocket and set the pile in his lap.

Eira peered at him around her paper. “You’re too young for readers.”

“You’re too old for smut,” he retorted, flicking the glasses at her pile of bodice-ripper novels.

She mumbled something about reporting him again. Fat lot of good that had done her three years ago. 

He doubted she was even being paid for keeping tabs on him, but he’d ended up grateful for it. Her intervention and dubious connection to Robards had shifted his parole to a witness protection scheme directly under the Head Auror himself.

For as lascivious a crone as she was, she didn’t divulge how or why Robards listened to her. Something having to do with her having been a “mature secretary” and him having been “so terribly eager”. He hadn’t asked a second time. But without her, he would probably be dead, not living quietly on the coast.

He drew a small notepad and pencil stub out of his pocket and scribbled a few lines.

Her paper snapped as she settled into a new page. “Any news from on high?”

“Nary a word. You?” Leaning down, he slid all but one book into the leather sling bag. She shook her head.

Relaxing into the companionable silence, he scanned the library patrons for anyone noticing him, or pretending to not notice him, and opened the book. 

Time spent in the library was as much a refuge as it was a fire walk. There were no wards here, but the cathedral across the street provided enormous tree cover and a very convenient updraft.

Eira’s presence today lulled him into a good, long read, and an hour had passed when he heard the warning caws across the street. He folded the corner down to mark his page, and gathered his things.

“Next week, then,” she said, not looking up. “Keep your beak clean.”

——————

A paper bag of dried flowers sat on the table next to Ron’s fish and chips. Scratching his beard, he scowled at it, hoping this wouldn’t become a regular occurrence. 

This place was known for quiche, which was neither breakfast nor lunch, omelette nor pie, and stunk up the whole joint. It was also the best place in the city to buy dried hibiscus flowers for tea, which he desperately needed.

His construction project at the Burrow had hit snag after snag, and the most recent one had incurred the infamous wrath of Molly Weasley. Personally, he thought she should be a little more grateful that he was spending his free time putting up houses for himself and Percy on the property. 

Eventually, they’d be houses. Right now, they were pits. Experimental pits.

But it would be just enough distance to not get in each other’s hair, and close enough to never miss visits when the rest of the family stopped by. Pretty perfect, if anybody asked him. Nobody ever did.

Hands clapped down on Ron’s shoulders. He jumped and reached for his wand, but the hands quickly moved to ruffle his hair.

“Harry, you git, you scared the bullocks off me.”

Harry grinned like a loon. “Well, there’s a complication.”

“You’re in an awful chipper mood. Meet another girl who pretends she doesn’t know who you are?” Ron quipped.

Ron was wary of any women Harry got enthusiastic about. He’d managed to fall head over heels in love with no less than five women who somehow convinced Harry they didn’t know he was famous. 

The last one had stuck around for six sodding months before Ron made a point of casually saying “Voldemort” so Harry could see her flinch. _Then_ , she’d had the gall to say she knew who Voldemort was, but didn’t know Harry Potter was in the war. Dumb bint.

His favorite was the one who said, “Oh, you’re _that_ Harry Potter?”, to which Ron had said, “No, he’s the _other_ Harry Potter with the scar and the glasses and the short fuse.” 

He didn’t remember the rest of that conversation, but Harry had stopped bringing his girlfriends around Ron as much. Bit of a downer, given their mutual preference for a good threesome.

“No, no new girls. Old one, in fact,” he chirped, practically bouncing in his seat.

“You’re into hot grannies now? Cheers.” Ron raised his water in mock salute.

Harry paused, thinking and shrugged. He reached over and stole half of Ron’s chips. “You’re in fine form today. What’s in the bag?”

“Hibiscus flowers for tea. I kind of accidentally excavated all Mum’s plants. I mean, the excavation went great, but how am I supposed to know what’s for the kitchen and what’s a rangy scrub bush?”

“Maybe you’ll all have to start drinking proper tea”, Harry suggested, chewing. “I’ve always dreaded seeing that pitcher of red death on the table.” 

“Anyway, who’s the lucky pensioner?” Ron asked, not terribly eager to discuss his family’s tea preferences.

“Hermione! She came back!” Harry all but squealed.

Ron sat up straight, eyes wide. “Honest?”

“Yeah, she messaged me!” Harry declared, mouth full of half-chewed potato.

Ron tried and failed to hide his excitement. Two Christmases ago, he’d realized it was the first year he hadn’t expected an owl from her. He’d always wondered if he’d done something wrong. Harry said she never messaged him back, so maybe it hadn’t been anything to do with Ron, but it had still bothered him for years.

“So, what brought her back?” Ron inquired.

“No idea.”

“Was she in Australia this whole time?”

“No idea.”

“What’s she been up to?”

“No idea.”

“Did she bring her parents back with her?”

“No idea.”

“Where’s she staying?”

“No idea. I should ask her that, though. Hang on a sec.” He tapped out a short message on his mobile.

“Har, did you actually talk to her?” Ron eyed Harry’s phone suspiciously. 

The whole Muggle communication system seemed incredibly complicated. For as often as he saw Muggles frustrated with them, he wondered if even _they_ knew how to use them.

“We messaged each other for a while last night.”

“So what _do_ you know, mate?” Ron asked, suspicious that Harry hadn’t fallen for some kind of scheme. “You sure it’s not another stalker? Or that that thing hasn’t been chopped?”

“Hacked. And no. She yelled at me for my spelling.”

“Huh. Well, that’s our Hermione, then.” Ron mumbled around the edge of his glass.

“She said she was recruiting cock. Kind of went from there.”

Ron froze mid-swallow, inhaling the ice water. “She said what?” he coughed.

“And I quote, ‘Harry. I’m assembling a personal army of the best wizard cocks in the UK, and I want you on the team. Please submit application.’”

“Blimey, but that’s direct.” Ron sputtered. “It would be like her to have an actual application process. Series of interviews. Maybe a proficiency test.” He snorted at the mental image of her issuing marks and “needs improvement” stamps on naked men.

Harry’s mobile chirped, and he picked it up to read it. A slow grin spread on his face as he fumbled in his pocket for something to write with. Hermione had sent him her address and an invitation to dinner tomorrow evening. 

Ron frowned, wondering why she hadn’t sent him an owl or anything. Granted, Harry was easier to contact, what with Muggle technology and all. But still. He hoped she knew he was a much better kisser now. Quite good all around, if anyone cared to ask. Nobody ever did.

“You sure that’s what she meant by it, though?” Ron worried. Maybe she’d developed a sense of humor in Australia, and Harry was his usual oblivious self.

“Yep. She wants to see us. Tomorrow night. At her flat in Cardiff.” Harry fished a pen out of his pocket, jotted down the time and address, and tucked it in the front pocket of Ron’s shirt.

“Us?” Ron squeaked. “How did I get involved?”

Harry nervously twisted a paper napkin. “Uhm, I may have mentioned some of the festivities she missed, a little of which involved you.”

“Oi! Not alright! I do not need Hermione Granger thinking I’m some kind of sex fiend!” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ron saw heads turning toward him, and a sudden hush in the restaurant. 

“I mean, if she had asked me, fine, not like I didn’t blow off some steam. But come on, mate. Don’t give her the wrong impression,” Ron grumbled, brushing crumbs out of his beard.

Harry chuckled, “She sounded interested. Asked to make sure she gets an invite to the next reunion, even though I told her they weren’t really like that anymore.”

Ron was still in disbelief that the exchange Harry described was real. The Hermione he knew wouldn’t just ask for sex. 

Then again, he couldn’t see her spending months getting to know a bloke, wining, dining, and all that, if what she fancied was a simple shag. She’d always been one to order off the menu straight away, not listen to the specials.

“What else did she tell you?”

“Ah, something about not wanting a relationship, and schedules.”

“Oh, hell. That really is her. She probably has a timetable for it already,” Ron groaned.

“Color-coded, no doubt,” Harry joked, but also kind of hoped was true. It would help avoid crossing paths with Malfoy if she did indeed hunt him down. He still didn’t understand why she was bothering. He and Ron played well together.

“Weird, though, right?” Ron asked, wondering if he wasn’t feeling the appropriate amount of enthusiasm. He’d only wanked to thoughts of her for, say, most of his life.

“Random, yeah,” Harry finished off the last of the chips he’d left on Ron’s plate, and rubbed his hands on his trousers. “See you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess so. Tomorrow.”

————————

Draco wheeled, circling the mile-wide ward, feeling for damage. The bag in his talons threw off the slow turn, and he changed directions. Fatigue tugged at the edges of his vision. Skipping a midday nap in favor of a post box stop had been a poor decision. No one ever sent him mail, anyway.

Wards satisfactory, he dipped into a slow spiral, assessing the house and grounds, if his home could be called that. The short granite protrusion surrounded by an expanse of scrubby, shallow-rooted grass didn’t look remotely habitable from the outside, but that was kind of the point.

The base of rock face boasted nothing more than a widened mine shaft opening and a faint footpath. In the near distance, the hard-scrabble ground fell off into the sea.

He dropped down on the sandy path in front of the door. The books shifted inside the bag, jerking him down into a clumsy landing. Talons dug for purchase, found balance, and shifted to human feet clad in modest oxfords. The Ministry hadn’t left him much, but at least they’d given him his shoes. A few pair, anyway.

Rolling the bag in his hands, he noticed he’d punched another hole in the leather. He frowned and slid a finger through the new gash.

The shaft of sunlight inside the door met with soft illumination from windows on the opposite wall. Light gray stone composed the walls and floor, streaked with whorls of tan and black. The walls featured what would have looked like natural protrusions and jags, had they not been at regular intervals. Softly inclining stair-stepping ridges up the walls and pits, dips, and furrows marked the stone. Almost deep enough to use as shelves, if he’d owned anything worth displaying.

After the estate assets had been frozen, he’d had enough in his own vault to buy the piece of land. Its only amenities were the coastal bluffs and a short mine shaft that had hit a hot spring and been abandoned.

He’d done the best he could with the crate of Bombarda-loaded blasting caps the Ministry had provided under the heading of “providing secure and adequate quarter for witnesses of crimes of war”. 

He was fairly sure they’d intended for him to blow himself to kingdom come. Running water would have been a more logical improvement.

It often struck him that his entire living space here was smaller than his bedroom suite had been in Malfoy Manor. Or Ministry Manor, or Smoldering Rubble Manor, or whatever the Ministry had decided to do with it. Good riddance.

He’d taken from the Manor only what he was both allowed and wanted, which amounted to books, clothes, a few baubles, and more books. The rich mahogany bookshelves of the Manor melded into the floor to provide the dwelling’s only interior walls, separating the bedroom from the kitchen and den. Their perfect lines and opulence were a hard juxtaposition to their surroundings.

A smattering of eagles and hawks called as they passed overhead, bound for the cliffs and fishing grounds beyond. He considered joining them, then remembered the remnants of last night’s catch waiting in the kitchen.

He threw the bag, and it bounced off the red velvet sofa and landed on the floor. He glared at its defiance. 

Maybe it had deserved that puncture wound.

—————————

“What do you think, Crook?” She asked the lazy ginger beast at her feet. “What would you do? What is the value of a shag? Definitely less than the cost of ten owls.” 

It was just past midnight, and she laid on her bed, hand dragging her wand back and forth over the carpet. Crookshanks padded over to her hand, waiting expectantly for their game to start.

“You’re never going to catch it, you know. You shall never sink your mighty little claws in it, my fluffy friend.” He sat stoically, tip of his tail flipping. She traced a circle in the carpet and muttered a Patronus charm, putting just a nudge of magic into it.

Blue-white streaks began to flow in the wake of her wand, and Crookshanks gathered to pounce. With a flick, a streak of light zipped under her desk, and he scrambled after it. She sent two more in opposite directions, watching the hapless cat pounce and crash into furniture. 

She chuckled when he expertly slapped a paw directly on a wisp, only to have it float upward, causing him to try with the other paw in a futile climbing motion.

“I told you, cat. You can’t stop them.” He startled when she sat bolt upright. “You can’t stop a Patronus, Crooks!” He only had eyes for her wand, and any more enticing lures it might emit. 

McGonagall and Dumbledore had sent messages via Patronus. Maybe she could do the same to reach Malfoy. The possibility of solving an impossible problem excited her to no end. Especially if it meant preserving her dignity by not going through Luna for an introduction.

It felt like eons ago that she’d summoned a full Patronus, but surely she hadn’t lost her knack. Perhaps she would have to try more than once, and there was a good chance it would fail to cross the distance and find him. But there was little to be lost in trying, and a challenge to overcome.

She propped her back up on her pillows against the headboard, settling in for this new venture. Her old memory of Christmas morning with her parents wouldn’t work. Losing their life together was still too raw. They didn’t truly remember anything. Their memories were the memories of the stories and pictures she’d shared with them.

Most of her memories of Hogwarts were tainted by the war. All of her memories before the last few years seemed tinged with sorrow and loneliness.

Think, Hermione, think. What’s the best thing that’s happened recently?

The day she found her parents in Australia was bittersweet, given they’d been imprisoned and she was a stranger to them. University had been good, but not great. Graduating had been a relief more than a celebration. But that night’s farewell romp with her neighbor in the flat across the hall was worthy of recollection.

“Hermione Jean Granger, you’re honestly going to use the memory of shagging one man to solicit another?” she said out loud. “Yes, you are. Because it’s… practical?”

She sighed and closed her eyes as she tried to remember his bedroom. 

_White walls with remnants of tape, boxes packed and sealed, a suitcase, a bare mattress, and a standard-issue desk._

_She was still wearing the deep red shift dress from the ceremony, but was barefoot, not having bothered to put shoes on to walk across the hall._

_He’d caught her eye as soon as he’d moved in at the start of the term. Affable smile, short brown hair, brown eyes, lanky build, and an undeniably graceful gait. Half of his wardrobe consisted of black lycra shorts and t-shirts from a ballet school in Melbourne. Sweat-soaked t-shirts, more often than not._

_Jake. He’d told her his last name several times, but she hadn’t bothered to remember it. They rarely crossed paths on campus, so she assumed his coursework didn’t overlap with her philosophy or archeology programs._

_He cleared his throat, “What did you have in mind?”_

_That’s right, she recalled. She’d propositioned him._

_“A quickie?” She looked around the sparse room and the none-too-clean floor. “I guess from behind.”_

_“Sure,” he said huskily, deftly unbuttoning his white dress shirt, then moving on to his belt buckle and trousers. There was something about his button-down shirt and soft gray trousers that had finally drawn her across the hall today._

_He pulled the dress’s zipper down her back slowly, like it was going to break. She shrugged it off her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor around her feet._

_Stepping out of the dress, she noticed that the floor was somehow simultaneously dusted with crumbs as well as slightly sticky._

Crookshanks hopped on the bed and startled her. Shooing him off, she licked her lips, closed her eyes, and let her hand wander between her thighs.

_Having stripped down to his socks, he pressed himself along her back. A twinge of jealousy at his socks hit her as her toes encountered crumbs of who-knows-what on the floor next to the desk._

_He grazed his lips up her neck to her ear while his arm curled around her waist, “I’ve wanted you since I saw you.”_

_She whispered a contraception charm and cast it wandlessley._

_“Hmm?” he hummed._

_“Me, too,” she whispered, and she had, but now she regretted not having been more forward with him months ago. It would have been rather convenient._

_His hand skimmed the fine hairs down her front to slip between her thighs. His finger slid between her folds to stroke her clit. A soft moan escaped her lips, and she leaned forward to rest her palms on the desk._

_There was a breeze at her back, and his hand suddenly pulled away. She turned to find him rummaging through the front pocket of a suitcase, retrieving a condom. She lowered her elbows to the desk, chin settled in her hand, as she watched him stroke his cock a bit, then roll the rubber on._

_Her hand snaked down to tease her clit while he walked back to her, his hands sliding around to grip her hips. She was ready enough, but not exactly melting in anticipation._

_His cock slid inside her in one long stroke, pulling a sigh from her and a deep groan from him. Her fingers stroked her clit as he started moving. Within a few seconds, she knew he had taken her offer of a quickie very literally, and he was swiftly approaching climax._

_She arched her back for a better angle, concentrated on the feeling of him becoming impossibly hard inside her, and pressed hard on her clit while he moaned loudly and made one final thrust. Her body hesitated, and a second-rate orgasm trickled through her, squeezing his cock briefly while he pulled out. She peeled her feet off the sticky floor, slipped her dress back on, gave him a quick kiss, and left._

She opened her eyes to Crookshanks watching her face. Even he looked disappointed in her.

“Hm. So, I guess that was rather half-arsed,” she muttered, casting a sickly Patronus too weak to even interest the cat.

It had felt a bit off, anyway, appealing to one man using the memory of another. Maybe the purpose of the casting and the memory worked better if linked. Harry had needed a Patronus for protection, and used the memory of his parents, who had protected him.

Did she have any memories of Malfoy that weren’t awful? Unbidden, the memory of being tortured in Malfoy Manor rose, but she’d hashed and rehashed that memory to the point of non-reaction. It simply existed as a part of her now, like a grain of sand in a bowl of sugar.

For having spent so many years in the same school, she didn’t have many memories apart from him being a merciless, casually gorgeous prat. 

She shut her eyes and tried to remember him. _Malfoy intent on potion ingredients, gray eyes serious. Malfoy sneering at her across a hall. Malfoy taking notes in scrawling script, elegant fingers dancing. Malfoy calling her a Mudblood._

_Malfoy’s head snapping back as her fist made contact with his smug fucking face._

She grinned. It had been _such_ a satisfying blow. The one and only time she’d punched someone, and it had been perfect. Better than sex. 

Merlin’s manhood, but that was a terrible comparison.

If a witch’s best memory was decking a man, should she really use that to send him an invitation to her bed? Bit of a moral quandary. Perhaps a foreboding, as well.

“Fuck it,” she mumbled. It was worth trying.

Nestled into her pillows, she concentrated on his face smirking at her, his chin snapping up, the indignation in his expression. The tears in his eyes as he struggled to decide whether to hit a girl or run away from her.

“Expecto Patronum,” she said firmly, circling her wand.

The blue-white orb swirling in the middle of the room surprised her. It was much larger than she remembered.

Her mind conjured the memory of her otter while she tried to press the light to the size of the small creature. It refused to condense, but took the correct form.

Okay, she thought, a rather _large_ otter. Forming it hadn’t been difficult, but preparing it to carry a message and potentially travel a large distance would require more effort.

In her mind, her magic pooled in her chest, and she pictured drawing it out with every breath, feeding it into the shape that was sedately watching her, floating on its back.

Knit it tighter, concentrate the energy. Make it dense and heavy with magic. Impenetrable and inexhaustible. 

She lost track of time as she focused on pouring into the otter’s form, scanning it from head to tail and back again, weaving tendrils and tying knots.

Exhaustion set in as she decided she’d made it as absolutely solid as she could. With a start, she realized she hadn’t prepared the message. Fatigue was pulling her down at an alarming rate.

“Come to Cardiff. Please,” she exhaled, and sleep claimed her.

—————————————

His Mark was burning again. It happened so often, that it was a reliable indicator that this was a dream. Was it a dream with or without the added tattoos on his right arm? He looked at the intricate black vines and delicate gray flowers that wound up his shoulder and extended in a fine tendril down the back of his hand. 

His arm was normal in this dream, the Mark’s loops and curves integrated into the larger tattoo. But that’s not where the burning was coming from. In fact, it wasn’t exactly a burning sensation. And it wasn’t coming from his arm, but his eyes.

The dream tumbled away like dry sand, but the heat in his eyes remained. Light, he realized, bloody bright light, at that. He threw his arm over his face, and cautiously opened his eyes to find the source of the blinding blue-white light.

Blinking away tears, a form took shape. It was a fucking Patronus. And a damned solid one, at that. It floated on its back, seeming to enjoy his bewilderment.

Sitting up, he examined the brilliant form. An otter. A sea otter, if he was to be more specific. It rolled over and bounded closer to him, its face stopping an arm’s length away.

“Come to Cardiff,” a weak female voice faltered. “Please.” It laid down, closed its eyes, stilled, and dissolved.

Plunged in sudden darkness, he blinked, trying to make sense of any of it. He shuffled through memories from Hogwarts of learning to cast a Patronus charm. Or trying and failing repeatedly, in his case. 

Someone had produced an otter, which was an unusual form. He remembered saying that person deserved a weird Patronus, because they didn’t deserve to be able to cast one at all.

“Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Granger.”

What did it mean? Why Cardiff? Why him? And why hadn’t it extinguished like a normal Patronus? Disappearing like it did gave the impression of someone dying, and it unnerved him as much as the entirety of the situation.

How utterly fucked would Hermione Granger have to be to send _him_ a Patronus? One that strong, and able to carry a message, too. 

Had she died sending it? His stomach dropped, and he leaned back against the cool stone at the head of his bed.

“Fuck!” There was no way Granger wanted or needed his help, but a Patronus couldn’t be faked. Only she could have sent it, but under what circumstances?

It was probably a trap. An elaborate one, he’d give them that. Death Eater fans who wanted a leader, or vigilantes who felt the war wasn’t over while he still walked the earth? Always a toss-up, but Cardiff was more likely to have vigilantes.

They had named themselves The Elder Band, and their terrible name had been nearly as annoying as their death threats and assassination attempts. If they were responsible for this, then either Granger was working with them, or they’d kidnapped and likely tortured her. 

It was a stretch for them to torture their own war heroine to set him a trap. They’d really have gone off the deep end. But if Granger could stomach being a rogue anything, he’d eat his wand. If and when the Ministry let him have one. 

He laid back down, lacing his fingers behind his head. What if it wasn’t vigilantes? What if it was one of the Death Eater revival groups? Those reprobates would _love_ to torture and kill a Muggle-born war hero. And they’d likely invite him to the party, the disgusting fucks.

He doubted they could pull it off, though. She was a formidable witch. He smiled, imagining a small mob of goons fleeing in terror and on fire from an annoyed Granger. Then again, there were dozens of the loons in any given city.

So either Granger was being held captive, tortured, and possibly killed by unhinged wizards, or she was in mortal danger from some other cause, and had exhausted literally every option available to her.

Neither was a good scenario, but they were both dreadfully plausible situations. Neither was really _his_ problem, though. Or at least not his responsibility. If Granger were dead or tortured somewhere, it really had nothing to do with him. 

He wasn’t responsible for her safety. Regret churned his stomach as the memory of her bleeding on the floor of his family’s home surfaced. He certainly hadn’t taken any responsibility then. Another Thing Malfoys Do Not Do; intervene.

“Well, fuck,” he resolved. With a sigh, he rolled out of bed and paused briefly to look out the window, as if the moon could absolve him of this duty. A loud screech sounded, and a sickly streak of mustard-colored magic smeared down the wards. The eagles had almost let that owl through.

He dressed hastily and shoved the essentials from the ledge in his pockets. He shifted, gray trousers and white dress shirt melting into deep chocolate brown and white feathers.

If he pushed, he could land in Cardiff at dawn. 

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Feathered Finery

It could be simple,  
To live life as a bird.  
My masters wind and rain.

“Ah, there’s that dimple!”  
I grimace at the word,  
And grit through my disdain.

DLM Hogsmeade 1998  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	3. Bickers and Knickers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut.  
> Ron got hot and puts his beard to good use. He also assembles furniture with sexy competence.
> 
> Draco gets slapped in a park and everybody has conflicted feelings about _that_ shit. (Does eventually get addressed like functional adults.)

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Flightless Fancy

Fuck this room, and fuck your face.  
Fuck, _fuck_ the damp, and fuck this place.

The wind is whistling, pinioned bird bristling,  
For anything but this.

DLM Azkaban 2003  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

The Cardiff owlery was a cramped, foul shack. It would serve them right if he threw open the cage doors and torched the building. That the owls would likely flee to starve in the wild kept him from doing so. Dozens of frightened eyes watched him squeeze his massive winged frame through the high window. Pitiful poor cousins, they were.

This adventure’s convocation consisted of four fellow Steller’s sea eagles, a golden eagle, and a Peregrine falcon who liked to punch above his weight. They’d sniffed the owlery out in less than the hour it had taken him to catch their breakfast in the bay. Teamwork among raptors was rare, except, apparently, when one of them was a human.

Shifting form, he stretched his shoulders, arms, and hands down to his fingers. He groaned, already dreading the hours-long return flight.

He opened a cage and addressed an elderly barn owl. “Do this for me,” he said, stroking its ragged crest, “and you’ll hunt and die free.” The owl roused its feathers and cooed its agreement.

“Find me Hermione Granger,” he instructed, and the owl dipped in acknowledgement. 

“We’ll follow you. Never return here. Stay with us if you choose,” he added.

Someday, he was going to have to ask Robards how to train owls. Draco had sent Matilda with him, and he’d been able to train her to deliver messages. Whether that was a fitting life for the magnificent bird remained his own internal struggle, but she seemed happy enough.

His convocation eyed the barn owl suspiciously. Killing owls who approached Draco was their favorite sport. And one he rewarded them well for doing. 

Hopping to his forearm, the small owl turned its round face up to him and ventured a demanding little shriek. It was a bold move, surrounded by much larger birds. The falcon danced its agitation on a perch, ready to attack.

“Show me.” It fluttered to cling to the wire door of another cage, where an equally tattered barn owl screeched inconsolably. Draco swung the door open and offered her his other arm. Her mate hopped off the cage and joined her as the door swung shut and latched.

Keeping them in shit-crusted squalor was inhumane enough, but caging mates separately made him nearly wretch. The mated eagle pair in the rafters touched beaks and bobbed their sympathy.

On his arm, they groomed each other, making him feel a bit like a third wheel. As if with one mind, the caged owls broke out in a jealous cacophony.

He would have to come back, but desperation clawed at him. They’d gotten to Cardiff later than he’d hoped. And possibly too late for Granger.

——————————

Hermione flailed wildly, hoping to make contact and stop the auditory assault. The noise stopped, so it must have worked. Rolling over, she groaned and felt the exhaustion in every muscle.

Why did her whole body hurt? Last night’s experiment trickled in. Physical pain from having pulled a powerful charm was something she hadn’t heard of. But she’d never done anything like that before.

Unholy beeping filled the room again, and she slammed her hand down on the alarm clock. She must have hit the snooze button. Evil contraption.

Crookshanks sprawled in the open bedroom doorway, announcing his presence with a long, lonely howl. “I know, I know,” she grumbled, rising to feed the greedy feline.

“Finish the food you have before you resort to a cat death rattle. Spoiled boy.” He set upon the fresh kibble like a wild animal.

She opened the fridge, eyed the contents, and decided going out for breakfast was a better idea. Crookshanks looked up at her, judging. Hypocrisy be damned, she was getting a decent breakfast.

—————————

Maybe younger owls would have been a better idea, but he’d chosen experience over speed. And speed, this couple did not have. They had been circling the south end of Cardiff for over an hour.

Maybe she was on the move? Were they taking her somewhere else? Had they found out about the Patronus and decided to relocate? Or maybe he _was_ too late, and the owls couldn’t find a dead body.

His head swam with visions of finding her dying on a rocky beach, mashed together with memories of her screaming, writhing, bloody on the Manor floor. He shook his head and looked for the owls. Their circling had become a descent spiral, and a shred of hope loosened the tightness in his throat.

Perching on the railing of a long pier, they hooted their conclusion. He scanned the pier, the walk leading up to it from some shops, and saw no one. It was still rather early in the morning.

Sick dread pulled at his gut. What if she was dead in the water under the pier? What if this was a trap to frame him for her murder?

He barked a request to the owls. They flicked their heads toward the shops.

Bugger. Out on the pier, he was just a large bird at a distance. Up close to humans, he was very obviously an enormous winged apex predator and foreign species. He also couldn’t shift and walk over as a human. Anyone holding her hostage would recognize him immediately.

The falcon could go unnoticed. Vaguely describing a human female with large brown feathers to the smaller bird, it took off in search of her. Idly, he wondered if the falcon would run himself into any windows. He could be a real wanker. A chuffed laugh awkwardly rattled his beak.

Talons locked on the railing, he settled into a comfortable roosting position. Fatigue pulled his chest down, and his eyelids drooped.

————————————

It was the eaglet nightmare again. The signature dream that only pestered him in the interstitial space between sleep and waking, which meant something was likely waking him up, but slowly.

The first time he’d dreamt of eaglets had been after breeding season on the Sea of Okhotsk. The urge to join in the mating flights had been there, but he hadn’t been in his Animagus form long enough for it to persuade him. Another year, and he might have given in.

Watching the other eagles spiral, hurtling toward the unforgiving sea, had been thrilling to watch and tempting to try. Sitting by, watching them build their nests on the cliff faces had been interesting, but not terribly compelling. Flying free while they sat on eggs had felt victorious. He’d fished extra for a few females whose mates had disappeared or died. Overall, it was entertaining.

When the eaglets all started hatching, however, he’d found himself in a constant state of anxiety and horror. His favorite ledge overlooked dozens of nests, and he could scarcely sleep as fuzzy little chicks tottered near the edges of nests.

After he saw the third chick fall into the sea, he stopped roosting on the cliff.

That’s when the nightmare had started. He was in a nest with anywhere from two to eight eaglets under his wings, and was frantically trying to herd them back to the center while they blundered about. Their fuzzy little bodies moved faster and more erratically until he finally woke in a cold sweat.

Over the last five years, the dream had evolved. The panic and the eagle elements had slowly been replaced with little human bodies and settings. The premise was still the same. Fuzzy little heads, unpredictable little bodies, and him trying to keep them safe. 

He never got to see a face, or many defined features. Just silken white hair or down-covered heads racing about.

Today, the setting was the Truro library. 

_He was sitting in the moulded plastic chair the librarian had been reading from, and four non-distinct fuzzy white heads pranced around him. There was no reason to _not_ let the little beings explore here, so he leaned back and waited to wake up._

_There was always a mutual fondness between him and them, but he hadn’t realized it till recently. Round heads atop undersized bodies raced back and forth between him and books, between him and puzzles, orbiting his chair. In some dreams, he was able to touch them, but only faintly._

_One was sitting by his feet, and he reached down to stroke the downy covering on top of its head. It was hard to tell if it was hair or feathers, but it reminded him of his own hair. Only once or twice had he succeeded in being able to feel one of them._

_His fingers slid through silky white hair, and a sigh escaped him. Gods, they were soft. He expected this one to skitter away, but it laid it’s head on his thigh. That was new._

_His fingers slowed, examining the downy fine hair. The little head nuzzled its unseen face against his leg, and the dream snapped._

——————————

Hours or minutes later, the falcon landed clumsily next to him, startling him awake.  
_Eating_ , the falcon pipped.  
_Alone_? Draco quirked his head, slowly waking up.  
_No chicks. No mate._ He bobbed encouragingly. 

Annoyed at the other bird’s presumption, he nodded, and the falcon left to survey the area. Probably destined for a brawl with gulls.

Why would she be eating alone in a cafe the morning after sending him a call to arms? If she wasn’t in danger from outside forces, what else was there?

Was the woman having a mental break-down? He froze, contemplating.

Now having occurred to him, that sounded like a strong possibility. He had watched her push herself to an exhausted mess every single term while pretending to relish it.

Maybe she’d kept up the practice and finally cracked. He wasn’t unsympathetic. He’d certainly been put through that wringer.

His vague rescue plan was discarded in favor of waiting and watching. Leaving instructions to the birds, he took flight in search of food and a roost. They would come for him when she settled somewhere safer.

——————

Bute Park was quickly becoming her favorite place to relax in the afternoons. This August afternoon was especially lounge-worthy. An unusually warm breeze and sunny sky reminded her of Perth in May, and there was no way she could waste such rare weather.

There was also no way she could physically do more than lay on a blanket to enjoy said weather. Luckily, she’d found a perfect book, a perfect spot in the tent of a small willow, and she had every intention of enjoying herself.

Her phone vibrated, and she grudgingly rolled over to check it.

_Ron’s in. Dinner?_

**Yeah. Tonight?**

_Fine by us. 8:00, yours?_

**Perfect.**

She smiled and sent him her address. Even if neither of them ended up wanting more than friendship, it was still friendship she’d be eager to have. She missed Ron’s easy laughter, and Harry’s smile.

Hopefully, those few kisses she and Ron had snuck in broom closets and empty hallways wouldn’t complicate things. They had been rather good ones, though. It was a pity they hadn’t had time to do more before the war started in earnest. He would have been a good first lover.

She regretted not staying in touch with him, but would either of them have been comfortable knowing about the other’s sexual exploits? She didn’t think so, and wondered exactly what kind of love life a grown Ronald Weasley had experienced. 

Would he have wanted to hear how horribly lonely and stressed she was her first several years away, knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing to help? Would she have wanted to learn about all of the Weasley birthdays and Christmases she was missing? 

Not likely.

She was still surprised he wasn’t married with several redheaded kids orbiting around him. That was how she usually pictured him. A younger version of his father.

The willow leaves cast gentle swaying shadows against her eyelids, lulling her. She imagined Ron turning into Arthur and back into Ron until she dozed off.

——————————

The owls led him to a willow tree, under which a woman lay on a dense blue and white striped picnic blanket. He couldn’t discern more detail through the wall of the willow leaves.

Touching down in a cluster of pines, he shifted, and was startled by an irritating jingle from an ice cream truck not far behind him. She appeared to be asleep, book in hand.

He examined the contents of his pockets and made for the truck.

——————————

He approached the tree slowly, an ice cream cone in each hand, and parted the curtain of leaves, quietly stepping inside. The cover provided by the willow tree allowed him to take his time appraising her. 

Her shirt was a thin green tank top with hints of a lacy blue bra peeking out around the shoulder straps. It hugged her breasts just enough for him to notice how much she’d filled out in the years since he’d seen her. 

The shirt rode up to reveal a line of skin above her shorts, and what might have been the scalloped edge of matching blue lace panties. Her shorts were a simple white terrycloth drawstring affair, but they didn’t hide the taper of her waist and the curve of her hips. Her thighs were tan against the white fabric, and invitingly thick.

The book rested low on her abdomen, pulsing slightly with her heartbeat, her thumb marking her page. One knee bent away from her body, showing a long expanse of inner thigh and giving the impression she was about to or just had rolled over. Her other hand rested on her ribs below her breast. He watched that hand intently, taking in the slowness of her breath.

She was still Granger, but Granger in full flourish. Her hair lay in glossy brown curls over shoulders more tan than they’d ever been in school. She wore no jewelry, no makeup, no adornment.

Draco mused to himself that she was rather attractive, at least when she wasn’t talking. Unabashedly sleeping in a park in what amounted to pajamas over lingerie was unexpectedly provocative. He leaned forward to examine the book. A treatise on the rights of children. Exceptionally dull, even for her.

He licked a quick swirl around his ice cream adjusting the napkin around it, just as it made a run to drip down his hand. It wasn’t great chocolate ice cream, but it was ice cream. Hers was melting in a hurry, as well.

He cleared his throat.

Nothing.

“Granger,” he said quietly, rather concerned about what would happen if she woke suddenly to him standing over her. He didn’t see her wand, but she surely had it nearby.

“Granger,” he said more firmly, watching her eyelids flutter and her chest expand with a sigh. “You rang?”

Her eyes snapped open, the familiar brown with gold flecks that he had grown accustomed glaring at him, now wide with surprise.

“I… sorry, I didn’t hear you,” she stammered, propping herself on her elbows and blinking sleep from her eyes.

“I guess it worked,” she mumbled more to herself, setting her book down.

“Ice cream?” he offered, holding the second cone out. “Black cherry.”

“Oh, no thank you. Uhm, you got here quickly,” she squinted up at him.

“Redeye flight,” he turned and walked to a large trash can, and dropped the ice cream in. Disappointment sank, as she realized she should have at least tried a bite.

She watched him, now that his back was turned. He had always been attractive, objectively speaking. He walked gracefully over the uneven ground. Grey trousers brushed against his thighs and hips just enough for her to see firm muscle under them. 

His white dress shirt was buttoned down tight, but strained a little over what looked to be a nicely-muscled chest. His narrow waist and long limbs added to the impression of height, though it did seem he had grown several inches since school.

He turned to walk back, his attention on his ice cream, not her. He still had the same white-blond hair, but it was a little longer and less formal, falling mid-ear on the longer side. She watched him lick around the ice cream, gathering up the melting rivulets, then slide the top gently between his lips, dragging the softest layer into his mouth before swallowing. Consumption with quiet veneration, she mused.

The hand holding the ice cream had a thread of black tattoo ink that wound out of his shirt sleeve to serpentine down the outside edge of his hand, down his pinkie, and disappear between the fingers. He looked up and watched her watching him. Grey irises limned in near black under dark ash blonde eyebrows examined her.

“So… how did you find me in the park?” she asked suspiciously. As if she hadn’t intended to be found, he mused.

His voice was a deep rumble. “Stole some owls.”

“Oh, that was clever.”

He was bored with the pleasantries, seeing as how she wasn’t facing her impending doom. Finishing his ice cream would be out of obligation and a hint of spite, he decided. It wasn’t spectacular, and barely worth the cold against his teeth. He could tell she regretted turning hers down, but that was on her.

“So, would you like to explain why you summoned me in the most urgent way possible for me to find you lounging unscathed in a park?” he drawled.

“Well, Luna and Pansy suggested contacting you…”

“I’ll be sure they get their referral bonuses,” he bit sarcastically. 

He waited for her to elaborate, but she just chewed her lip and fiddled with the edge of her book.

“What do you _want_ , Granger?” He hadn’t flown here, hunted her down, and kept his own anxiety in check all day for idle chit-chat and ice cream in a fucking park. 

Licking the last of the ice cream from the top, he began delicately working the edges of the cone with his lips and teeth. Small nips carefully removed precise sections, slowly spiraling down the cone.

She hadn’t actually expected him to receive her message, let alone show up and tongue-fuck a damned ice cream cone. Luna’s introduction would have been the better route.

Merlin, she patently didn’t want to ask him anymore. But she couldn’t just tell him to disregard her reaching out, either. Nor could she think of another excuse.

“Uhm, well, I… companionship, I guess?” she offered haltingly, frowning at her own word choice.

He waited and popped the bottom of the cone in his mouth. He chewed slowly, working the last of the melted ice cream out of the point before crushing it.

“Uhm, _male_ companionship, more specifically?” she gulped.

He wiped his already-clean hands with the napkin, pressed it to his mouth, and crumpled it in his fist. He processed her words as he walked back to the garbage can, and threw the napkin in.

Fury burned in his chest like acid. He’d left the safety of his wards, flown through the morning while worried out of his mind, for _this_? 

They’d intercepted over a dozen owls with hexes on the way across the bay, but at least he’d thought he was coming to her rescue. She didn’t need a white knight. She wanted a fucking gigolo.

Breathing slowly, trying to squelch his anger, he walked the few steps back to the edge of her blanket. He was going to cut Pansy’s hair in her sleep for this.

Nothing pithy or relevant came to mind, so he waited for her to speak her piece, hoping what she said would justify her actions.

She looked up at him uncertainly. He didn’t look pleased. His face was a careful mask, his breathing steady and deep. He could have been ruminating on tie colors, for all the reaction he showed. Maybe he didn’t understand what she meant.

“So, yeah, uhm, nothing… serious,” she said, sitting up, her hands on the ground behind her, her elbows locked. Making her case laying on her back didn’t seem terribly convincing.

Godric, she was going to have words with Luna about this. Maybe more than words with Parkinson.

He didn’t look at her. “That’s… utterly mad,” he huffed.

“It is not!” she retorted, disgusted by his prudishness, “Women have needs and they-“

“Not _that_!” he hissed, looking around, worried people had heard him. 

He dropped to his knees next to her hip. “The bloody Patronus,” he hissed. “Are you fucking insane?”

Their eyes were level, and she could see him practically vibrating with outrage, his grey eyes molten. He was too close and too angry and gods below, he smelled like hot teakwood in the sun.

“I couldn’t send you an owl, and nobody knew where you li-“

“Bloody hell, Granger. Do you use air raid sirens for invitations to tea? Foghorns to hold the lift?” he spat.

She dropped back down onto her elbows, eager to get a few more inches of space between them. Maybe he _was_ exactly the same person he’d been a decade ago. 

He didn’t let her keep the space she’d made between them, leaning down on one hand to hover over her. She swallowed hard, trying to ignore his leg along her hip.

“All that book knowledge and no idea how to fucking use it,” he sneered. “Isn’t that your general condition?” 

Anger was getting the better of him. He was spitting venom he regretted before it even fully left his lips.

“I didn’t think-’ she started, her eyes welling up.

“Of course you didn’t,” he scolded. “How royally, hopelessly, desperately fucked would Hermione Granger have to be to use a bloody Patronus to contact _me_?”

For the first time, it dawned on her that it was her tactic, not her request, that was the issue.

“Death’s doorstep or worse, is roughly how fucked,” he ranted. “Have you _ever_ in your life, thought ‘Oh, I know who’d be a great help? Draco Malfoy!’”

She looked away from him. His piercing gaze was too close now that he’d drifted toward personal attack. She was willing to consider that her methodology was flawed, but mockery wasn’t helpful.

“Real sport, that Malfoy. I’ll just ring him up,” he railed. “Great reputation for public service.” 

His jaw clenched, trying to stop the flood of vitriol burning in his throat. It didn’t help that she was just so close, laying under him. Gods below, how he wanted to collapse down on top of her and snuff his own tirade with her lips.

“You’re certainly making a case for yourself,” she said firmly. He lowered his gaze back down to find her glaring up at him. Her defiance was infuriating. This trip hadn’t been worth his time, effort, or safety, and she didn’t care.

He swallowed loudly, regretting his ranting, but feeling justified in it nonetheless. 

“Why would I be interested in your proposition, anyway?” he said with a scoff.

There it was. Her throat felt tight, and her eyes watered. She turned her head to the side to wipe her eyes on her shoulder, torso still leaned back on her elbows.

This was the response she’d most dreaded. Not being ignored, or even being rejected, but being ridiculed while being rejected. Not being good enough. Not even worth his consideration. He was still Malfoy.

He leaned down closer to her ear while she wiped her eyes. “Strike out with the locals, or already fuck your way through them?” he whispered.

He wanted to cram the words back in his mouth as soon as he said them, but his thought was interrupted by quick searing pain against his cheek.

Outrage erupted through her, and she heard a crack, felt her hand sting, and saw his face snap to the side before she realized what she’d done. Dread trickled cold down her spine as she watched him lick his lips and turn back around to face her.

Scrambling to gather his thoughts, he pushed up to his knees. He had to leave, and now. This was escalating horribly.

He leaned back on his heels preparing to stand.

Instead of rising to follow him, she laid back down, magnanimously stretching her arms with a yawn and arching her back. She crossed her wrists on the ground above her head and settled her hip more firmly against his knee. 

He blinked slowly, watching her settle. Circe’s slit, it was an inviting position.

His focus was being rapidly drained by his efforts to ignore the exposed skin of her abdomen, the tightness of her shirt, her nipples peeking through, and the continued warmth of her hip against his calf.

He worked his jaw, feeling the sting in his cheek dissipate. It had shut him up, he’d give her that.

“Go fuck yourself, Granger,” he bit off.

“That’s the real last resort, isn’t it?” she asked lazily, with a smirk.

He paused, an amused huff escaping his throat. He chewed his lower lip, thinking. Her intransigence and humor had put a dent in his anger. Guilt at his own lack of control churned his stomach.

“I expected to find you dead or having the wits cursed out of you. Again,” he admitted quietly, finally saying it out loud.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh… I didn’t have much control over the message itself.” 

He shuddered, remembering that otter appearing to die and wither after delivering its cryptic message. It had caused him as much anxiety as the message itself. More, maybe. She seemed to have no idea what a difference it made.

If she’d have sent it with a jaunty invitation to dinner instead, would he have been in this state all day? No, probably not. In fact, he probably would have been flattered and more than a little impressed.

He realized he’d been staring at her mouth in contemplation, and looked back up to her eyes. A tight smile graced her lips and softened her gaze.

She slowly sat back up to her elbows, shaking her curls back behind her shoulders. “You haven’t actually said ‘no’ yet.”

Miraculously, he thought, she still wanted a response from him. Tension in his shoulders began to melt, gathering instead in his groin as she idly traced one hand up her ribcage. He watched her nipple tighten in response.

He sat back on his heels, more to hide his growing erection than to make space between them. Unfortunately, now he had a better view of her thighs, sex, and hips. Her shorts had worked up slightly into her cleft, and he was having immense trouble looking away.

He smiled weakly. It was an impressive Patronus.” His voice came out a whisper as he watched her hand rub lazy lines below her breast. She was so close, and seemed so willing, despite his reaction.

It would be easy to skim his hand up her thigh and under those shorts. The idea flitted through his mind of pressing his palm to her mound while she ground against it, and his other hand stifling her moans while she came right here in the park. He shook his head and gripped his thighs.

“It was exhausting,” she sighed contentedly, blinking slowly. He wondered if she sighed like that after she came.

“Fine. I’m listening.” He scrubbed his hands on his thighs to keep them to himself.

She noticed the hardening length of him as he rubbed his hands on his trousers. 

Feeling confident, she slid her hand over his and lightly traced the line of his tattoo.

“Good, we’ll all plan over dinner tonight.”

“Right, then.”

Hesitation flitted through him at her phrasing, but he ignored it.

————————

Dishwashers weren’t supposed to sound like lawnmowers, Hermione thought. 

Crookshanks agreed. Yet another thing to add to the move-in checklist.

Abandoning the kitchen in favor of setting up the living room, she crossed over to the small carpeted area and surveyed the boxes. Harry and Ron would be here in two hours. Just enough time to assemble the coffee table and at least clear the floor.

Malfoy wouldn’t show up after their tête-à-tête in the park. He’d accepted the paper with her address as if she’d handed him parchment made of pureed slugs.

Finally locating the scissors in a bin of bric-a-brac, she froze as someone knocked on the door. Were people in Cardiff the type to introduce themselves to the new neighbor? 

Abandoning the scissors, she went to open the door.

“Hermione Granger, in the flesh!” announced an elated Ron Weasley.

“Ron!” she hugged him as though she could meld them together and never separate again. He held her like she was the last solid thing on Earth. Tears welled in her eyes, and she hid them against his chest. He did the same, burying his face in her hair.

“Gods, ‘Mione,” he rumbled. “I thought you’d never come back.”

“I was always coming home,” she said, throat tight. “It just took a while.”

“Too long,” he said firmly.

“Too long,” she agreed, nodding. She stepped back to let him in, closing the door behind him. He set down a backpack and unbuttoned gray flannel jacket, throwing it on the backpack. He looked around the apartment, uncertain of where to set his things.

His familiar blue eyes scanned the room, but this was not the skinny ginger kid she’d snuck kisses with. For starters, he had a thick auburn beard covering his jaw. It was neatly trimmed, and looked soft. Her arms ran with goosebumps as she wondered what it would feel like against her inner thighs. His brassy hair had settled into a natural sunset of color, and he wore it shaggy on top with sections falling every which way. The light from the kitchen window hit him and illuminated bits of strawberry blonde and deep auburn.

He was still only a few inches taller than her, but had grown significantly. Wide shoulders tapered down to a rather nice, round rump clad in revealing jeans, if denim could be thin and tight enough to be revealing. Which, apparently, it could be. The jeans showcased strong thighs and stretched over the front of his hips without giving much of a preview.

His t-shirt strained over his shoulders, skimmed his chest, and grazed a bit of a tummy. 

Fine muscles played in his forearms as he fiddled with something in his pocket. He looked solid, and warm, and downright edible. And gods below, she was suddenly hungry.

His eyes settled back on her, having examined the kitchen and living room to his satisfaction. It was almost unnerving how accurate his mental image of her was. He’d always fantasized about her as more voluptuous than she had been in school, both because it was logical, and because it was sexy as hell. And here she was, the full-breasted, round-hipped version of her, clad in a tank top and little shorts.

But her voice. He’d somehow forgotten what her voice sounded like. Or maybe it had changed. His certainly had.

She’d lost the strident timbre and biting clip she’d had when they were kids. Her voice was low, and smooth, quietly confident, and he very much wanted to hear it moaning his name.

Watching her watch him, he wondered if she’d thought about him the last nine years the way he had of her. Had she been groaning his name into a pillow at night? Was it as familiar on her lips as her name was on his?

“I’m still unpacking, so just throw things anywhere,” she said, breaking his reverie.

“Sure. Want some help?” he offered.

“Yes, actually, since you’re here early, I’d love help putting a coffee table together.” Arm at the small of his back, she led him to the sofa, in front of which a flat-pack box lay like a modern Gordian knot.

He looked at her, confused. “I’m early? Harry said six.” He rummaged in his pocket for the note Harry had written.

“Oh,” he said, examining it.

“I guess that’s supposed to be an eight?” he asked sheepishly.

“I see his penmanship hasn’t improved,” she quipped, deftly cutting the box open.

“Merlin, no. I think it’s gotten worse. Is it alright that I’m here early? I can come back at eight.” He really didn’t want to scare her off by crowding her right out of the gate. She probably had important things to do. Hermione Granger was practically made of important things to do.

She brushed the offer off with a wave. “No, no, don’t be silly. I could use the help.”

Pulling the cardboard open, she dug inside and frowned. This was entirely too many small pieces for a simple table. But no, the instructions listed all 48 pieces, and it did indeed seem there were that many.

Ron was already sorting parts and had moved on to slipping anchors into cutouts, matching screws and test-fitting them. He was surprisingly adept with the tiny tool, spinning it deftly between his thick fingers then switching to press it firmly with his thumb.

Awkwardly, he noticed her staring at him. “Uhm, lots of assembly involved in running the store. Old hat.”

The assortment of parts in the box on her lap diminished quickly, the table taking shape as they traded tidbits. He’d dropped out of Auror training and didn’t seem keen on the Ministry. She was entering a Ministry internship and Muggle law school. He lived at the Burrow and owned Wheezes now. She’d finished two Masters degrees, but allowed herself mediocre marks. He didn’t date and didn’t want to talk about it. She was more than happy to drop that topic.

He slid from the sofa to the floor to fit the legs to the tabletop. He’d made very quick work of it, and she felt useless, her only contribution having been dispensing bolts and anchors when he asked.

“Okay, last bolt, and it’s done,” he held his hand out for the final piece, but her hands were empty.

She looked around the sofa. “That was the last one.”

He proceeded to crawl around on the floor and check under the sofa, and it would have been amusing if she weren’t trying to tamp down the urge to run her fingers through his hair. Maybe grab it and pull him up to kiss him, and slide her other hand down to his zip-

“It must be on the sofa,” he startled her, popping up in front of her knees.

She gulped loudly. “Oh! I… I don’t see it anywhere.”

“You’re probably sitting on it,” he said, turning to catch the heat in her gaze. He hesitated, taking in the uncertainty in her eyes. Once upon a time, he’d been confident she’d wanted him, but that was nine years of silence ago.

Slowly, he rested his chin on her bare knee, and she melted. Her hands found his hair and ran through it, relishing the thick silky texture. His head dipped to lay a chaste kiss on top of her thigh, his soft beard tickling her skin. Eyes drifting up to hers, quietly asking, calmly waiting, he grazed another kiss a few inches higher.

A shuddering sigh left her as tension melted from her hips and thighs, and she relaxed, open to his touch.

His smile was beatific, but changed to ornery. “We can find a broom closet, if you like.”

She snorted a sharp laugh, and clapped hands over her mouth in immediate embarrassment. “No, maybe for special occasions,” she joked.

“Mm, I’ll look forward to it,” he hummed, moving to softly kiss up her opposite leg. He reached the apex of her thighs, and could nearly taste her arousal on his tongue. Her hands in his hair had stilled, but now they tilted to angle his face up to hers.

She looked conflicted, he mused. For him, this was a done decision. He expected her to speak, but she just looked at him, lips parted, breathing shallowly.

“You tell me when to start, ‘Mione,” he whispered against her thigh.

Confusion flickered in eyes. “When to start?”

Kissing his way back down to the back of her knee, he shook his head. “Your lead.”

He’d put the onus on her to continue, and it disoriented her a bit. Telling men when to stop was familiar, but telling one when to proceed felt foreign.

Her silence and confusion worried him a bit. “I’ll just keep doing this until you soak through your couch, ‘Mione.” He nipped at the back of her knee for emphasis.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, both at the gentle bite and her sudden comprehension. “More. Definitely more.”

He grinned, sliding his hands up the backs of her calves to the crooks of her knees. 

They felt enormous and strong, but his touch was gentle.

He pulled her knees forward, dragging her hips to the edge of the couch. His mouth began its slow ascent back up her thigh while she suppressed a needy whine. He was so close to touching her, but taking impossibly long to get there.

His lips finally grazed her sex through her shorts, and she whimpered. He kissed more firmly, earning a slow thrust and soft moan from her. He gently set his open mouth over her, pressed his teeth above and below her clit, and firmly exhaled a hot breath into the fabric.

She startled, gripping his hair, torn between crushing his face between her legs, or dragging his lips up to meet hers. She stared at him, feeling the soaked fabric of her knickers clinging to her skin.

He held her gaze, rolling his bottom lip under to taste it, and she decided.

Her lips crashed against his as they met kneeling. Her grip on his hair giving him no other option as she slid down from the couch. His arms wrapped around her, and she felt the press of his hard length against her belly.

Her hand drifted down his back to cup his ass, and his followed suit. Idly, she realized this is what he’d meant by telling her she was leading.

He tried to adjust his hips, and she realized how uncomfortable his tight jeans had probably become. She ran her fingers under his waistband from his back around both sides to the button of his jeans, and he shuddered.

His lips sought out new territory along her jaw, and down her neck, his beard tickling as he went. Her hands had found a mission in freeing his cock from its denim cage. The button and zipper gave way easily enough, but Circe’s snatch, these jeans were tight. 

She tried to shove them down, and looked up to him for guidance.

He grinned. “Had to defend my virtue somehow.” She glared up at him.

“Greedy witch,” he mumbled, catching her mouth. His knees drew closer together, giving her the slack to slide his jeans down to his knees. He scuffled and kicked them off inelegantly.

He wasn’t wearing underwear. She snorted softly in amusement, his hard cock suddenly ready and willing.

A cropped covering of bushy brownish-red curls surrounded a thick base that tapered to a leaking tip that was begging for her attention. Her hand wrapped around him, and he hissed in a breath.

His hands slid down the back of her shorts, cupping and spreading her ass. Cool air touched her wetness, and she moaned against his chest. He slid his hands back up, hooking her waistband with his thumbs, and he dragged the shorts down her hips to settle around her thighs.

Strong hands gripped her hips, thumbs rubbing small circles over her pelvic bones as he leaned in to softly kiss her forehead.

“Please,” she panted.

His hand slid up to cup her breasts through her shirt. “Please what?” he asked.

You lead, he’d said. She took a moment to stroke him, and think about what she wanted. His hips jerked in time with her hand. She wanted him inside her. She wanted his hands all over her body. And she wanted to hear him come.

“I want,” she tried. 

“Hmm?” he hummed with a grin.

“I want you to fuck me,” she said hoarsely. “From behind.”

Trepidation furrowed his brow as he looked down at her.

He leaned down to her ear, one of his hands finally leaving her hip to burn a slow path to her sex. “How?”

She couldn’t think past the anticipation of his fingers finally reaching her. “How what?”

He gently, barely, softly cupped his hand over her mound as she moaned and tried to press harder into his palm. “ _How_ do you want me to fuck you from behind, ‘Mione?”

Dread trickled in his gut. If she told him to simply bend her over and fuck her senseless, he was prepared to refuse. He’d told her to lead, but that didn’t mean he’d follow blindly. 

An impersonal, ass in the air, see-you-around kind of fuck was simply not happening. Not with her. Not tonight.

Her stroking had slowed as she thought, and he was grateful. She wouldn’t get much from him if she brought him too soon.

“I want…” she pulled away from him, sliding her shorts and panties past her knees to her calves and turning around to lean against him.

“I want this hand,” she took his right hand, and slid his fingers down between her folds, drawing a soft moan from herself. “Here.”

“And I want this hand,” she took his left hand, skimming it up and around to cup her left breast through her shirt. “Here.”

He hummed his approval against her hair, and slid two fingers alongside her clit. She gripped the edge of the couch, and arched her back, grinding her ass against his cock.

Throwing her hair over one shoulder, she offered him her neck. One of her hands left the couch to reach behind to guide him into her.

“Oh!” she hesitated, and cast a wandless contraception charm. He was momentarily embarrassed that he’d nearly forgotten, too. But then her fingertips were holding the tip of his cock steady while her hips sank back onto him, and the thought evaporated.

He parted the slick heat of her and their breaths hitched in time, both freezing, sinking into each other.

She moaned deeply, “Gods, you feel so good.” Her head dropped as her hips angled up, taking him deeper. His hand left her breast to wrap around her ribcage, pulling her away from the couch.

With her back against his chest, he spread his knees for leverage, and began short, deep strokes inside her, his free hand pressing more firmly against her clit.

She felt his breath on her neck before she heard him whisper. “So perfect... So close, ‘Mione.”

His orgasm was building with each thrust, but he knew she was close, as well. Her muscles gripped him every time he slid his hand over her mound.

“Come with me,” he said, grazing his teeth along her neck. His strokes picked up speed as his hand rubbed her, supporting some of her weight.

The loose tendrils of pleasure weaving through her snapped into a humming rope, and with his next thrust broke, sending her moaning, her body clenching around his cock as he groaned against her shoulder.

A shaky breath shuddered from him as he planted a line of small kisses up her neck. 

Sighing, she leaned back against him, sated.

“That was…” she trailed off, not sure how to finish the thought.

“Mm hm,” he hummed, nuzzling behind her ear.

“Unrepeatable,” she declared, closing her eyes, wishing she could doze off like this.

He kissed the top of her head, straightening up. “Give me 30 seconds, and I’m game to try.”

She huffed a laugh, and felt a trickle down her thigh. Reality slowly came back into focus, and she looked around for something to wipe her leg with.

“I’m dead serious,” he said, his fingers finding her rather sensitive clit again. She paused, feeling him inside her. He really was getting hard again.

“Ronald Weasley, you are insatiable,” she grinned. Her hips were cooperating with him of their own accord, but her eyes drifted to the clock.

“Shit! Ron, it’s already seven forty-five.” She bent down to reach for her shorts and knickers. He took the opportunity to skate his hands up the full length of her back, and grind one deep thrust in against her.

She groaned, “Mm… incorrigible.” He chuckled and pulled out. Sliding her shorts up, she leaned back to plant a kiss on his chin. Or the beard covering it. “I guess I’m going to change.”

He wrapped his arms around her torso and squeezed, memorizing the feel and smell of her. Perfect.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Unsubtle Beast

Aren’t you someone’s daughter?  
You harridan in curls.

You understand the slaughter…?  
The lives I’ve made unfurl…?

I’ll leave you like I ought, or…

DLM 2007 Cardiff  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	4. Contentious Curries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry also got hot.  
> Hermione, why is Malfoy here?  
> And why does he know entirely too much about female anatomy?  
> Why is Harry talking to him so much?

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
_La Petit Mort_ and the Longest Sigh

Rasping, gasping, bodies clasping.  
_Amoureux_ , are you dead?

Gnashing, slashing, windows smashing.  
Bring the mortal dread.

Wracking, hacking, vision blackening.  
Just put me down to bed.

DLM 1999 Durmstrang Institute  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

Ron’s pants hitched up over his hips just as he heard the buzzer inside the flat. Unsure of what to do with it, he held the button, and it buzzed back.

When he’d arrived, a woman had held the door open for him. Maybe he was supposed to push a button?

Nothing happened, so he pushed the button in a musical pattern, amused with himself. A knock on the door next to him startled him.

“Harry! It’s been hours!” Ron exclaimed.

“Ron!” Harry leaned in for a hug “You look rather shagged out, mate. Hope you haven’t been waiting here too long.”

“Brilliant bastard, you are. She’ll be out in a minute.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. He was immensely pleased with himself. Subterfuge was not his strong suit, but intentionally poor penmanship was. Ron would never have forgiven him if he’d jumped the gun just for the sake of being the first one in her bed. Really, he wondered why she hadn’t owled Ron first. Put him in a bit of an awkward position vis-a-vis maintaining their friendship.

Harry bit his lip, and leaned out to look into the hall. “So… how’s our best girl?”

Ron grinned, “I don’t know what they’re feeding them in Perth, but fit and ferocious, mate.” He shook his head, trying to clear the sound of her moans from his ears.

“Lovely, Ron.” Harry chuckled. Hesitation slowed his question. “You okay with this?”

Ron’s eyebrows knitted in thought. “Yeah,” he nodded, “I am. Seems kind of natural, really. And, confidentially, I might want the help,” he said smirking.

“Alright, then.” They heard the bedroom door open and close, and each wondered if she’d heard them. Both hoped she had.

———————————

Smiling contentedly, she leaned against the closed bedroom door. She hadn’t heard much of their conversation, but she had caught their agreement on her walk back from the bathroom.

If they weren’t willing to cooperate, she wasn’t entirely sure what her backup plan would have been. An exclusive relationship with Ron seemed like a one-way ticket to being barefoot and pregnant in the Burrow for the next decade. That had zero appeal.

She wasn’t opposed to having children. Intended to, actually. But she didn’t want her entire life to be nappies, snacks, and messes. The Ministry probably wouldn’t appreciate footing her expenses in Cardiff for her to run off and whelp a passel of adorable ginger miscreants. And they _would_ be adorable miscreants.

She slipped on a pair of silvery gray lace knickers, the same design as the blue ones they’d ruined, and grabbed a black knit skirt off the floor.

“‘Mione, we’re ordering curries! Hurry up!” Ron shouted down the hall.

“Chicken vindaloo! Out in a minute!” She looked disdainfully at her hair. It had laid so nicely this afternoon. Oh, well.

———————————

Harry was on the phone, leaning on the sink and gazing out the window when she rounded the corner into the kitchen. His voice was deeper than she remembered, but that quick cadence was the same.

Ron was busying himself with something in his backpack, and she had the opportunity to watch Harry.

Harry’s hair was short, and she hated it. Very short, in fact. He wasn’t wearing glasses, and she hated that, too. Good thing he’d already sent her a picture of a body part she did approve of.

He was wearing track pants and a sweaty t-shirt that clung enticingly to muscled arms and a powerful back. He must have come straight from training.

Standing, he slipped his phone in his pocket. “Should be here in 20.” He turned to see her in the doorway.

“Hermione!” He snatched her up in a bear hug. Her arms wrapped around his middle as she got a face full of sweaty cotton. His armpit and shoulder shouldn’t have excited her as much as it did, but Merlin, he smelled like sex already.

She waited for him to let go, but he just… didn’t. She relaxed her arms a bit, and he followed suit, but didn’t drop them.

Over his shoulder, she saw Ron watching them, smiling softly. Harry’s thumbs rubbed delicate circles on her back, and he bent his head to her shoulder. His stubbled chin rubbed against her neck and shoulder like a cat. She inched one hand further up his back, and let one drift lower to his waistline.

He lifted his face and slid one of his hands up the hair on the back of her neck, cradling her head. She was sure he was going to kiss her, and was immediately anxious about moving this quickly. But he just looked at her.

Without the glasses, his eyes were such a gorgeous hazel. Flecks of greens and browns mixed, like a forest canopy in the sun. Absently, she noticed the flesh under her hands was rather firm. In fact, there was little give to him anywhere their bodies touched. That would be fun to explore.

He smiled, gently holding her head. “I missed you.” He gave her a peck on the forehead, and let her go.

She was very proud of herself for not crumpling to the floor.

—————————————————

A long breath through his nose did nothing to slow Draco’s pulse as he examined the row of buttons on the front of the building. The urge to turn on his heel and walk away was hard to ignore. His curiosity was winning out, though. She had certainly looked eager earlier. After he humiliated her. And after she’d slapped him.

Regret squeezed his throat. He’d yelled at her. Insulted her. Berated her like a child. In public. _Merde._

Something about arguing with her had thrown him into an old, dangerous, uncontrolled space. At what point had their bickering turned hostile? 

He rehashed the conversation for the umpteenth time that evening. Probably when he insinuated she wasn’t worth his consideration. And then when he’d doubled down on that and suggested she was both somehow unattractive and undiscerning in her taste for Muggle men. 

He might as well have called her an ugly Mudblood slut. _Merde._

Pursuing this wasn’t fair to her, and it wasn’t any good for him, either. Despite how much he’d wanted to utterly meld himself to her body right there in public.

He at least needed to apologize, then he could leave.

#7- H. Granger. He pressed the button, not entirely sure what to expect. The button stayed lit, and he waited, kicking small rocks off the steps.

A congenial voice startled him. “Oi, this you? Number 7?”

He nodded, and the man shoved a plastic bag full of styrofoam containers into his hands.

“Thanks, mate.” The man said, reaching into another bag and holding out a fistful of plastic-wrapped forks and knives. Confused, Draco accepted them and stuffed them in his back pocket.

It smelled amazing, and felt like enough food for a party. Granger’s phrasing came back to mind, and he wondered what he was heading into. A set of blue lace panties, with any luck, he mused.

A grating buzz emitted from the building, and the lock clicked open. He took another deep breath and walked in.

—————

The flat was starting to feel like a home. Not _her_ home. Just _a_ home. A place where someone could theoretically feel at home. She hadn’t felt that in nearly a decade. Her parents’ new house was lovely, but it was their home, not hers.

A knock sounded at the door, and she was grateful for the distraction.

“That’s the curry,” said Harry, not looking up from sorting silverware into a drawer.

“On it!” Ron barked, hopping up to open the door.

Hermione hoisted a shopping bag onto the counter, and began taking out cups, picking stickers off as best she could.

The door swung open as Ron shouted, “Get down!”

Whipping around, she found Ron with his wand at Malfoy’s throat, and Malfoy with something white held at the ready against Ron’s neck.

Harry rounded the corner, wand drawn. “Bloody hell! Ron, no!”

Panic shot through Hermione. Ron was ready to curse Malfoy through a wall, and Malfoy was… grinning? Not just grinning, but positively tittering. What on earth?

She examined the weapon he was holding against Ron. It was a packet of plastic utensils. He held their takeaway in his other hand.

“Ron! Lower your wand!” she shouted.

Malfoy had a moment to assess the situation while Weasley decided whether or not to kill him on the spot. His instinct to draw from his back pocket for a duel impressed even him. Though this did end up rather silly.

Drawing a deep breath, Malfoy could smell the curries, stale air from the flat… and sex.

His nostrils flared, and he pinned Granger with his gaze. His eyes traveled down her, noting she was wearing the same tank top as before, but a skirt. Likely different knickers, he mused. He quirked an eyebrow at her, and a prickling flush spread across her chest before she looked away.

“Might need a new strategy for this, Potter.” Malfoy said, forcing his face blank. “May I suggest ‘Expelliforkus’?”

Harry frowned. “Ron, it’s alright.” He stepped closer and took the bag from Malfoy’s outstretched hand.

“It is most certainly _not_ alright. Hermione comes home and this bastard just happens to show up? No. Not buying that at all. What? Malfoy, the Delivery Boy? Hell of a coincidence.”

“Ron, she invited him.” Harry intervened, gently urging Ron’s arm away from Malfoy’s neck. He plucked the fork and knife packet from Malfoy’s hand for good measure.

Malfoy cleared his throat. “Thank you, Potter. Merlin knows the havoc I’d have wreaked upon the city.” He was trying, and hopefully succeeding, at hiding his own surprise at Potter and Weasley’s presence. He immensely regretted not asking Granger to clarify who would be at this dinner. Major bit of oversight on her part, he thought.

Ron wheeled on Hermione. “You _invited_ him?” Had she been cursed? Was she bait for some kind of Death Eater trap?

Hermione nodded. This was tanking quickly. As much as she’d wanted an open, organized plan, perhaps this was the absolutely wrong way to go about it.

“What in Merlin’s name would possess you to invite _him_ up for dinner, ‘Mione?” 

Ron ranted. “And how is he even here?! He’s supposed to be dead.”

“I live to disappoint,” Malfoy said with a smirk. He’d really just wanted to apologize and go home, not trade barbs with Weasley. Potter was oddly placid about his presence.

“Even I kind of presumed you dead,” said Harry, glad he’d wagered on Hermione succeeding when he called their order in.

“Ministry’s dirtiest secret,” Malfoy mocked. Harry filed that away for later contemplation. 

The Ministry knowing Malfoy’s whereabouts was certainly news to him, even as a more senior Auror. Harry nodded Malfoy into the room and closed the door behind him. This wouldn’t be a great way for Hermione to meet her neighbors. “I was betting against Hermione being able to find you,” he half-lied.

Ron’s head snapped to glare at Harry. “Harry! You knew about this?”

“I… Yeah, she mentioned it.” He avoided looking directly at Ron, not wanting to be the target of his outrage. Ron’s face was turning an alarming shade of red as the reality of the situation sank in. 

Hermione eased herself into a kitchen chair. She had entirely forgotten to warn Malfoy of the guest list. Their spat in the park had taken over the conversation, and she’d only focused on getting an answer from him. The tension hadn’t helped her plan rationally, either. Bit hard to plan a cordial dinner invite when one’s resisting the urge to undress under a willow, she mused.

It hadn’t occurred to her that Harry wouldn’t mention Malfoy to Ron. Ron looked like he’d rather rip his cock off than share it with her again. This was spiraling downward so quickly.

Hermione held a hand up, quieting Ron. “Ron, please, just-“

Malfoy turned and wrapped one hand around the doorknob, the other hand raking his hair out of his eyes. She glimpsed his regret before his face went neutral.

“I’m not staying, Weasley. Granger, I came to apologize and bow out of this whole… well, I would say ‘clusterfuck’, but that would imply success,” he said, matter-of-factly.

Ron huffed, “Apologizing _before_ you turn tail and run is new.”

Malfoy brushed the insult off.

Harry had been weighing what little he knew about Malfoy while Ron had been having his tantrum. Not a word had been printed about Malfoy in the four years since his release from Azkaban. A one-year sentence like his was unheard of. 

He remembered reading internal Ministry reports that Malfoy had testified extensively against his own parents, as well as providing information extending other Death Eaters’ sentences to life imprisonment. Malfoy’s smooth drawl brought him back to the current situation.

Malfoy took a deep breath and turned to Hermione, “I’m sorry I was short with you earlier, Granger. I’m flattered. Honestly. But not in need of a slow, painful death.”

“Thank you,” she said, surprised by the apology. “And you were right. I… it was overkill. And unintentionally misleading. And I’m sorry.”

Harry looked down at the plastic cutlery in his hand, Malfoy’s jibe sinking in. _Expelliforkus._

He smiled. “Malfoy, I guessed and got you chicken tikka. But you can have my korma if you like.”

——————————

Ron shredded naan into confetti while Harry and Malfoy traded Quidditch adventures. Hermione watched in quiet disapproval. Perfectly good naan.

“No, the Koldovstoretz team brooms are just Siberian pine saplings with the branches stripped off,” Malfoy said, scraping up the last of the korma. It had been the best meal he’d had in quite a while, but he’d decided against complimenting it. They didn’t seem impressed, and he didn’t want their pity.

Harry stacked his empty container in the pile. “Did you get to ride one?” Hermione was thoroughly bored with the words coming out of their mouths, but damned if they weren’t a sight to behold. They seemed to be getting along well enough. Harry leaned toward Malfoy eager to talk, and Malfoy was hesitant, but receptive.

“Yeah. Horribly back-heavy, what with the rootball. Hell of a broom for keepers, though.” He nodded, looking to Ron. Ron really did want to know more about the brooms, but not from Malfoy.

Harry stretched and yawned, tonight’s training, his work day, and the earlier blowup catching up to him. “Did you bring one back with you?”

Malfoy paused, concealing a glance at Potter’s exposed midsection by turning to place his container in the stack. “No, Potter. Auror teams don’t generally let you pack souvenirs when they take you down and drag you ass-first across a continent.” 

Harry had briefly forgotten Malfoy must have learned about the Russian Quidditch practices while hiding or on the run, not on some kind of international sporting tour.

“Oh.” Harry muttered sheepishly. “I suppose not.” An embarrassed flush spread across his cheeks. Being chided for asking a stupid question jarred him. His coworkers tended to treat everything he said as a divine proclamation.

Ron looked at each of them in turn, and stood to leave the table. Harry watched him, worried Ron was jealous of his conversation with Malfoy. Ron returned with the bin and began clearing the table.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be hard to just make one,” Harry said, lost in thought.

Malfoy shrugged. “Haven’t had much use for a broom in years.”

Crookshanks wove himself between the legs of Malfoy’s chair. It hadn’t escaped her notice that one of them had snuck him a bit of their curry. She suspected Harry or Malfoy.

Content to listen, she’d relaxed into the ebb and flow of their catching up. Or blatantly _not_ catching up, in the case of Ron. He was obviously listening intently and several times opened his mouth to chime in, but quickly closed it and refocused on his food. 

Having sex with him already tonight had probably been a mistake. A really great mistake, but perhaps it was contributing to his attitude.

Their meal concluded and she settled herself in the lone armchair in the living room across from the kitchen. Ron followed her, claiming the end of the sofa nearest her.

Harry continued peppering Malfoy with questions about Koldovstoretz and Durmstrang Quidditch. Nipping at the heels of a Death Eater for information was an odd way for an Auror to slake his curiosity, she thought. Especially considering he’d probably acquired said knowledge in unsavory ways.

Malfoy looked like he was ready to change topics. Hermione cleared her throat none too subtly, “Shall we?”

————————

Harry wasn’t sure what he’d expected from a dinner date and sex-planning meeting. Sex, he supposed, was what he’d expected. And a whole lot fewer calendars.

Hermione was laying on the floor with a massive desk calendar and four neon highlighters. Ron had pulled a fucking tome out of his backpack that had the store’s employee schedules, shipping schedules, sales rotations, events and maintenance.

Harry felt woefully unprepared for this summit. He had this weekend off, so he worked next weekend, and that’s about as far ahead as he planned. The weeks that he worked the weekend, he had two weekdays off, but he generally forgot when they were till the day before, or he just went ahead and showed up at work. He was not feeling terribly adult at the moment.

Malfoy had been quiet through the schedule comparisons. The only conflicts he offered were a parole check once a week, and Ministry summons as assigned. Ron had scoffed at those.

“So, if we can find some patterns in where your days overlap mine, I can plan out through January, when my term ends,” Hermione said to no one in particular, or possibly to herself. Harry thought she was having way too much fun with her calendar.

“My whole life is pretty much fucked last week of August through mid-September,” Ron muttered, scratching his beard. “And then quite a bit of September is restocking after the start of term.” The annual Hogwarts rush was the most lucrative few weeks of the year, but it owned him. Sleeping on his office floor was the glamorous life of a proprietor. 

Malfoy had grown bored and a little envious of everyone’s terribly important and busy schedules, found a box labelled “Books, A-F, 2005”, and was busily snooping. Her damn cat kept throwing himself underfoot like he _wanted_ to be stepped on.

If he were to be honest, the only routines in his life were seeing Eira at the library and fishing. Granger had apparently kept, had shipped, and alphabetized her textbooks from 2005 by the last name of the lead author. Which meant she had the lead authors’ names memorized. Terrifying.

“I could always come to the store and defile your office desk,” she offered with a wink. Ron grumbled something about not trusting her to try and organize it.

“I work that weekend around the start of term. And have remote investigations… sometime?” Harry added.

Malfoy was idly thumbing through a copy of something about patriarchy and family structures, which looked an awful lot like an alternate title could be “How to Be a Shitty Pureblood Wanker”. It wasn’t a bad way to pass the time while waiting for Granger to realize she was coming up with a schedule against her own interests.

To him, the reason a woman would request “male company” for a weekend a month was glaringly obvious. She’d realize her error soon, if she pulled her head out of her calendar.

“Granger, can I borrow this?” he asked, hoisting the massive hardback book up so she could see it.

She had a dab of neon pink highlighter on her lower lip, where she’d tapped the tip while deep in thought. It was more than a little adorable. “Yeah, sure.”

He heard her mutter something about it being an odd choice for a Malfoy. He hefted the book in his hands, a scowl appearing as he realized the book was too big for him to carry home in his talons.

Ron had taken over most of the couch with an impressive array of spreadsheets. Without looking up, he pointed a quill at Malfoy. “Malfoy, I guess that’s your weekend, then.“

Malfoy’s patience had run out. “Granger, you said a weekend a month,” he clarified.

Hermione looked up from her ridiculous calendar. “Right.”

“Total. Not with each of us,” he stated.

“Oh… right.” She looked down at her technicolor opus in dismay.

“Did you mean just any old weekend every calendar month, or say, a very specific 48 to 72 hours every 28 days or so?” He avoided her gaze, trying to drive his point home with some delicacy.

Hermione thunked her forehead down on her calendar and swore under her breath. “Hel’s bells. I can’t erase all of this.” Ron and Harry looked at each other and shrugged, not sure why it felt like their planning had been entirely scrapped.

Malfoy took Hermione’s chair and sat down with the book. “So, 28 days, regular?” he asked, again trying to tread lightly into the topic.

“Like clockwork,” she grumbled, forehead still on the marred calendar. He could grant her a mourning period. It had been a masterpiece of color-coding.

He was a little disappointed Ron and Harry hadn’t caught on to the slight diversion in topic. The book on patriarchal oppression practically winked at him from his lap, and he shrugged.

“Alright, Granger, what day is today?” he asked gently.

Ron and Harry perked up at the prospect of a question they could answer, and simultaneously blurted, “The 18th!”

Sitting up cross-legged and glaring at her calendar, she pulled her phone from her pocket and checked it. What a waste of paper and highlighter and effort and organization, she thought. Playing schedule chess had been fun. So fun, in fact, that she’d forgotten the original purpose.

“Day 11,” she replied. She sighed, and ripped the heavy page off the calendar, crumpling it angrily.

Malfoy smiled at her little outburst. “Calm before the storm, then.” His smile zapped away as he flinched at Crookshanks clawing up onto the back of the chair and settling on his shoulder.

She shrugged noncommittally, throwing the wadded paper nowhere in the vicinity of the bin.

“Would anyone like to explain to poor simple Harry and I what the fuck you’re on about?” Ron asked, getting up to retrieve the paper ball and depositing it in the bin.

“I’m not simple,” Harry muttered to the ceiling, his head laid back on the couch. “I’m... uncomplicated. It’s different. But yeah, what on earth are you two talking about?”

Hermione had really wanted to just be able to ask these damned men for sex when she wanted sex, and that be it. Why was it so much more difficult here than in Perth?

Her strategy had worked up until this point in her life, and she was finding it a strange flavor of humiliation to have to admit to men she fancied that she mainly fancied them during a specific part of her cycle.

What she was trying desperately to avoid was letting any of them know how devastating her sex drive was for those few days. It was all she could think about. Food and sleep went by the wayside as often as not. She’d actually begged off sick from exams multiple times to stay home and get herself off for entire afternoons. Her _schoolwork_ had suffered, for Merlin’s sake.

“Oh, honestly, Ron, you’re one of seven! You ought to know these things!” she snapped, her embarrassment overriding her patience.

“Babies?!” Ron shouted, his face stricken. “Oh, hell, no!”

“Stupid git,” Malfoy muttered, inspecting the index page of the book. “Nobody’s making babies, Weasley. Just helping with the… drive.”

“Oh, thank Godric!” Harry said, collapsing back down against the couch. “You all scared me there.”

Malfoy shook his head, disappointed in his fellow menfolk. For as much as they likely built their lives around fucking, they didn’t seem to understand some basic biology. 

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the damn cat was reading over his shoulder.

“Granger, may I look at your records?” he inquired as clinically and gently as he could. He was well-aware how invasive a request it was.

Hermione gulped, “Records?”

He knew she was playing dumb. Nobody with that kind of highlighter assortment didn’t keep a painfully-detailed history. He wasn’t about to push it, though.

“A log or calendar or what have you,” he proffered, flipping pages in the book. “For a project, the Slytherins girls made a huge shared calendar in the common room. It was incredibly helpful.” 

He grinned, remembering the hijinks that damn thing had led to. Granger seemed to relax a little, grasping his familiarity with the topic. The furball on his shoulder was purring. Loudly. In his ear. Disconcerting.

“We used to count Pansy’s periods down like a New Year’s Eve ball drop.” He couldn’t keep from laughing to himself. “She got so mad. It was great.”

“Slytherins,” Ron uttered, shaking his head, bewildered.

“It… it’s on my mobile,” she said warily. “Hang on.” She opened the app and handed him the device, knowing damn well he had know idea how to use one, but would be adept at picking it up.

Malfoy slid his hand into a trouser pocket and came back with his reading glasses. Slipping them on, he accepted the mobile from her. “So, this is the calendar, and then swipe like this to flip cycles and tap for information.”

She was leery of giving him her mobile, but given that he was looking through her most personal information, the rest of the contents of her phone seemed irrelevant. Something about him putting glasses on to review her information felt more intense. Like he was putting her under a microscope. Whether for her record-keeping or biology, she had no idea, but it was uncomfortable and far too intimate.

Ron was busy mocking Malfoy to Harry, who was concertedly _not_ thinking that Malfoy looked good in those glasses. It wasn’t fair that Malfoy had made fun of Harry’s ugly glasses, and was now sporting some rather fetching ones. Harry ignored Ron’s barbs about Malfoy being a deviant. 

Suddenly self-conscious about his glasses, Malfoy tried to ignore them all watching him. A touch of far-sightedness lingered from having spent too much time in feathered form. He mumbled something appreciative about symptom tracking and Muggle technology to Hermione, who had sat up next to lean on the chair next to his leg.

Resentful, Ron asked, “So, ‘Mione. You only want to see us, total, a couple days a month?”

“Right,” she said, turning her attention away from Malfoy. “That’s honestly about as much as I’ll be able to spare when my classes and Ministry internship start in September.”

“Very romantic,” Ron quipped. Hermione rolled her eyes.

Without looking up, Malfoy ventured another rather intimate question. “Granger, which contraception charm do you use?”

Everyone gaped at Malfoy, Hermione finally breaking the silence. “ _Which_?! There’s more than one?!”

Harry was growing uneasy with how long Malfoy had been scrutinizing Hermione’s mobile, but didn’t want to hassle him in front of her. He grabbed his own mobile and texted hers, knowing the alert would interrupt his perusing.

_Malfoy, you’d better not be snooping in her phone._

Surprised by their shock, he looked up at Granger. “Yes, there are at least three that I’m aware of. We designed the third one as a house project when I was a fifth year.”

The mobile vibrated in his hand, and he looked down to see a small box with his name in it. He tapped it, figuring it must have something to do with him. A different window opened, and he read the message from Harry.

Harry had been staring at him since sending the message, and received an eye roll in return.

“That is the most disgustingly Slytherin thing I’ve heard yet,” Ron said unconvincingly.

Malfoy’s attention returned to the screen, and he realized Hermione’s tracking information had disappeared, and he was looking at a conversation between Hermione and Harry. Curiosity got the better of him, and he tapped “See Previous” in the window while keeping his attention on the conversation in the room.

“Careful, Weasley. I’ve heard you reaped the benefits of it at some reunions,” Malfoy warned.

He continued idly scrolling up in the conversation on the phone, disappointed that it was rather banal, other than mention of Millicent and himself.

Harry was thinking hard. “Does casting it involve using both hands?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” Malfoy murmured.

His eyes flicked back down to the screen, expecting another bland block of text, but instead found a picture. It took him a second to make sense of the image.

It was a very erect cock with a “thumbs up” next to it. Sent by Potter.

Malfoy bit his tongue to keep a shocked guffaw from escaping his mouth. He pretended to think very, very hard about the mechanism of action of contraception charms. He hadn’t needed to think about those in years.

Nostrils flaring and breath shuddering in, he tried to ignore the hilarity that he was holding a picture of Harry Potter’s cock in his hand. Let alone that Potter had sent it to Granger with that damn thumb thrown in as a dignity-defying measure.

“Oh, Millie used that one,” Potter added, pleased with himself for being able to add to the conversation. He hoped nobody other than Ron knew about Millicent’s penchant for strap-ons.

“Did she, Potter?” he said, angling the phone so only Harry could see the screen. “Did Millicent use it often?”

Harry’s face blanched and his curry threatened to come up. Malfoy was looking at a picture of his cock on Hermione’s phone. Good Godric’s gonads, death could not come at a better time.

Harry stuttered, trying to keep calm, “Yeah, she’s, she uh-“

“She’s very proficient,” Malfoy interjected. “We worked on several related projects together. Some… devices and whatnot.” 

He pressed a button on the phone, making the screen go dark, and handed it back to Hermione with his compliments.

For the first time since the war, Harry Potter wished he’d stayed dead. Not only had Malfoy now seen his cock and the stupid pose he’d chosen for that picture, but Harry had just inadvertently admitted to a sexual relationship with a woman who was into pegging men. And to top it off, Malfoy had insinuated he may or may not have helped her build the equipment she fucked Harry with. Death sounded like a fucking picnic.

“What’s the difference?” asked Hermione, eager to learn more about alternatives to one of her most-used charms.

“Oh,” Malfoy sat up in the chair, returning to the technical conversation. Hermione would chase this like a terrier, and it was commendable. “Action site. The one we developed works higher up. In the tubes. Versus in the cervix. The textbook one can interfere with sex.”

“I’ve used it probably thousands of times and never had an issue,” Hermione countered.

Thousands, thought Malfoy, by Salazar, that was a little impressive. He ventured a lewd question. “Are you wetter without it?”

Hermione sputtered, caught off guard by his frankness. Everyone was caught off guard by the question, by the looks of it.

“Take your time,” Malfoy drawled, attention returning to the book in his lap. Hermione’s brow was furrowed in concentration. This was something she hadn’t tracked or logged in any way. A total failure in data collection.

Malfoy turned a page and grimaced. Wherever Salem, Massachusetts was, he wasn’t going there. Coarse wetness scraped up the rim of his ear, and he flinched. The fucking cat had moved from pointedly purring in his ear to licking him. “Shoo.”

Ron and Harry were engaged in a terse whisper debate. They’d swapped detailed stories of rather eager Slytherin women at reunions and parties.

“Ohhh…” Harry exhaled, the connection dawning on him.

Ron looked at Harry, seeing the connection, too. “Slickerins.”

Malfoy’s jaw tensed at the slur. “That didn’t sound terribly respectful, Weasley.”

Hermione had finished a rough analysis of her own sexual response and her attention turned back to the room, having missed the exchange between the men. “You might be right, Malfoy,” she said.

“Of course I am,” he scoffed. “We tested it for over a year.” It had been a massive undertaking. The amount of information he’d compiled and sent to St. Mungo’s had been atrocious. And there was no small amount of risk involved. A rash of pregnancies at Hogwarts would _not_ have earned him points with the Healer’s Guild, not that it had mattered in the end.

Having seen her record-keeping, Malfoy regretted that the older Slytherins had decreed it a House project, not open to other students. Granger would have been an immense asset. Pretending to read the book, he considered how much better a workmate she’d have made than most of the Slytherins he’d been automatically paired with. Yet another problem with the House system, he thought.

Hermione’s eyes lit up, and she leaned forward to ask another question, but Ron interrupted. “Someone’s proud of his little project,” Ron interjected sarcastically.

“Fuck off, Weasley. I don’t remember you contributing anything to society as a fifth year,” Malfoy bit back.

“At least I didn’t help try to destroy it as a seventh year,” Ron shouted. He’d had enough of Malfoy. He was a fucking criminal, a coward, and he had no place with Ron’s friends, let alone in Hermione’s bed.

“Ron!” Hermione scolded.

“No, Hermione, he’s a thrice-damned Death Eater, and I’m done pretending he’s not! I don’t give a fuck about his projects or his Quidditch or that he survived the damn war,” Ron said tersely, gesturing to Malfoy with a quill.

Harry curled up in the corner of the sofa, not wanting any part of this fight. Malfoy had just acquired enough blackmail material to drag him through the press for months. It was a shame, though. He’d rather enjoyed Malfoy’s stories and candor.

Hermione stood, shocked at Ron’s outburst, unsure whether to rise to the defense of either of them, or let them argue it out. She’d honestly never seen Ron this angry.

Malfoy plucked the ginger cat off his shoulder and deposited him on the carpet, much to the creature’s dismay.

Ron wheeled on her. “‘Mione, I will find you another fucking blonde, if that’s what this is about.”

She choked back a startled sob. Her vision blurred as tears collected against her lashes. “Damn you, Ronald Weasley.”

“Shit, Ron. That was low,” Harry said softly, rising from the couch to hug Hermione.

Regret burned like hot ashes in Ron’s mouth. He was going to lose her right on the heels of finding her again, and it would be his own temper that pulled the trigger.

Malfoy slowly rose from the chair, setting the book in his place. He leveled his gaze on Ron. “Granger?” He addressed her without looking away from Ron. “Don’t send me a fucking Patronus again.” 

He strode toward the door.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Debris Confit

Prince of Ashes!  
Just think of it, when we have won!  
Prince of Ashes.  
Don’t be silly, what backlashes?  
Now’s not the time to come undone.  
You can’t be loathed by _everyone_ ,  
Prince of Ashes.

DLM 1998 Wiltshire  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	5. Thumbs Up, Pants Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut.  
> Don't leave the Golden Trio alone. They disrobe at an alarming rate.  
> 

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Liquid Centers

Flowing, oozing succor, where the center seeks release.  
In the mouth, a rush and flood of taste.

Quiet, subtle searching, for anything but peace.  
In the hand, a hurried, desperate pace.

But woe be we, who never cease,  
Lives given up to haste.

DLM 2001 Siberia  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

A loud tapping on the window startled them all, but Malfoy practically jumped out of his skin. Harry let go of Hermione to let a small tawny owl in.

Malfoy spun, eyes wide. “Don’t touch it!” A flush crept up his neck, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“It’s a bloody owl,” Ron said derisively. It amused him that a Death Eater would be terrified of a bird with a note on it.

Hermione’s curiosity was piqued. “Why are we afraid of the owl?” she asked gently.

Malfoy looked to Harry, who stood at the window, confused, with his hand on the sill. “Uhm, looks to be addressed to you, Malfoy.”

He ran both hands through his blond hair, trying to steady his breathing. “Would you mind scanning it for us, Auror Potter?” he asked politely. Ron rolled his eyes.

Harry ran his wand down the owl, and finding nothing, moved on to the small note. His detection spell lit up a fireworks display of sickly yellow and angry red slashes and swirls.

Hermione gasped at the layers upon layers of spellwork on the small piece of paper. “Can you defuse it, Harry?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replied, shrugging. It was nice to be useful outside of work, he thought to himself. “It’s boobytrapped all to hell. Nothing lethal alone, but enough combined to take somebody out.”

Harry went to work unweaving and disarming the hexes and jinxes while the owl impatiently tapped at the window, expecting a treat.

Embarrassment bubbled up in Ron for mocking Malfoy’s apparently well-founded fear. Something about this wanker made him constantly put his foot in his mouth, and he resented him for it.

“I don’t want to know what you did to earn that owl, Malfoy,” he muttered.

“You know everything I’ve done to earn that, Weasley.” He shot back. He hadn’t done anything that hadn’t been splashed all over the front of The Prophet for years.

“Seems appropriate, then.” Ron smirked.

A connection was percolating in Hermione’s mind. This had to have something to do with why it was impossible to contact him via owl. He must be protecting himself from them somehow.

“Does that happen often?” she asked.

“Bomber owls being sent? Yes. Them actually getting through? Never. I have eagles who take them down.” He frowned, analyzing the situation. “And they should be doing so right now. Which means they’re in danger or have fucked off somewhere.”

Ron was incredulous. “You just kill people’s owls?!”

Harry shook his head and watched the owl fly away. “I’d shoot my own owl down if it were carrying those on a regular basis.”

In other circumstances, Malfoy would have been alarmed at Potter’s willingness to kill his own pets, but the solidarity was much appreciated. Few people outside well-trained Aurors could recognize the seriousness of those spells. It was rather validating.

“Granger, do you have a balcony? Or roof access?”

“Uhm, no, but the big window above the kitchen table opens wide.”

Malfoy studied it long enough that the rest of them started to look at each other in concern.

“That _should_ work. I’ll be back for my things, but I’m not staying.” He walked over to the window, cranking the two sides open like doors.

“Have fun at the window, I guess,” Ron mumbled sarcastically.

“Uhm, I’m going to need clean clothes later, so… Sorry,” he said, as he began to unbutton his shirt.

Ron rolled his eyes and looked to Harry to share in his annoyance, but Harry was perplexed, watching his child nemesis hastily undress in a kitchen for unfathomable reasons. 

Harry was thoroughly confused, and he loved it. Literally anything could happen next. He had a sudden craving for popcorn. And to maybe touch the tattooed arm that was coming out of Malfoy’s sleeve. Medea’s mammaries, that was some gorgeous artwork.

Hermione watched his shirt peel off, eager to get a look at the tattoo she’d seen a hint of earlier. As well as the rest of him. It wasn’t turning out to be a sensual strip-tease, but if it slaked her curiosity, she was more than willing to spend time watching. She bit her lip and ignored Ron watching her reaction as Malfoy dropped his shirt and quickly started on his belt. His tattoo was stunning. A delicate smattering of vines and flowers in grayscale hid his Mark but emphasized his strong shoulders and arms.

He was long and lean, like he’d been intentionally built for speed. Not overly muscled, but plenty strong. She could only see his back, but it was worthy of admiration. Fit, proud, and graced with gorgeously-defined shoulders.

Malfoy’s trousers hit the floor, and he stepped out, pulling off his socks more gracefully than any man should be able. Hermione pursed her lips and hoped he was going to remove the dark green boxer briefs that were standing between her and a full show. No such luck.

Without looking back, he stepped up onto the windowsill, gripped it with his toes, let go of the frame, and dropped out. Hermione let out a startled squeak.

An enormous eagle glided down from the window before clearing the building, pumping its wings, gaining altitude.

Hermione and Ron gaped, slowly turning to each other. Harry leaned against the window frame, watching the winged silhouette disappear between buildings.

“Did he just turn into a massive fuckall bird and fly away, or did one of you jinx my contacts? Cuz I didn’t bring my glasses.” Harry asked, bewildered.

“I… guess he’s an Animagus,” Hermione speculated. She was quietly relieved Harry still owned glasses. He still looked strange to her without them.

“Probably unregistered,” groused Ron. Malfoys earlier jab sank in, and he turned to her. “Did you seriously send him a Patronus about this?”

She brushed off his shock with a shrug, having had more than enough chastening on account of her communication methods. Letting Ron rip into her all over again was the last thing she needed.

They joined Hary at the window and all quietly considered the events of the evening. She was disappointed by Ron and Malfoy’s animosity, but not surprised. Her mind churned, trying to come up with a solution that would let her have both of them, but maintain decent communication. A ships passing in the night approach didn’t seem like a feasible plan. Nor did ever meeting together like this again.

Ron watched Hermione’s eyebrows furrow in concentration. What she was ruminating on, he had no idea. It could be anything from contraception charms to upcoming course work. He slipped his arm around her waist. She hesitated but leaned into him, and he relaxed. 

She wouldn’t have been unreasonable to pull away after his tirades about Malfoy. It seemed like such a bad idea, but Ron had always trusted Hermione’s plans. She was smarter than him. Hell, she was the smartest person he knew.

Malfoy’s comment about not needing a broom for several years came back to Harry. Of course he didn’t need a broom anymore. Why would anyone bother with a broom when they could fly like _that_?

Harry mumbled to himself, more than anyone. “He’s a bloody disaster magnet.”

“See, ‘Mione? Involving him is just asking for trouble,” Ron added indignantly.

Mind still reeling over the implications of his Animagus form, she nodded, “I know. Maybe.”

Merlin’s beard, Harry thought, what would it feel like to fly like that? To be able to free-fall, loop, spiral, and dive without ever worrying about losing his broom? It sounded… erotic. Flying and fucking were, far and away, the two best things in life. He was suddenly grateful he’d worn loose pants.

“Ron, you don’t ever have to look at him again, but I’d like to at least try to work something out,” Hermione added, turning in his arms to rest her head on his shoulder. He was warm and solid and smelled like home.

“Dammit, ‘Mione, but _why_?” he begged.

Struggling for words, she tried to piece together an argument that didn’t rely on blaming hormones, or schedules, or make him feel inadequate. 

“Ron, I just… do,” she admitted, waiting for him to react.

Harry was still looking out the window, hoping to catch another glimpse of those wings. “The clit wants what it wants, Ron.”

Hermione scowled. “Poetic, Harry.” She was grateful to him for breaking the tension, though.

Ron sighed heavily. “So, keeping our friends close and our enemies in your bed, then?”

“He’s not a friend, but I don’t consider him an enemy,” countered Hermione.

“Me, either,” Harry said.

“I just don’t trust him.“ Ron muttered, crossing his arms.

“Me, either,” Harry said again, still looking out the window.

“But I’m not the one trying to get in his pants,” Ron added, looking to Harry for agreement.

Harry frowned and reached to adjust glasses that weren’t there. 

Ron had been entirely willing to entertain other men in her life. Hell, he’d come here tonight expecting it. But Malfoy had been a shock. Why hadn’t she consulted him, or even warned him? Did his judgement not matter at all to her?

Ron hugged her head to his chest, hands moving in her hair. “I just… I guess I just wish we were enough for you. Harry and I. And I know you said you didn’t want a relationship and all that, but you already have one with us. You sort of can’t _not_.”

Harry plopped heavily back in his corner of the couch. He leaned forward, knees on his elbows. “He’s right. We can’t just be fuck buddies. The three of us have too much history for that.”

“Four.” Hermione interjected. Glossing over their history with Malfoy would be a mistake. Though, she had to admit, she sort of had been. A tug in her hair brought her attention back to Ron. “What are you _doing_ to my hair?”

“Braiding it,” he announced.

“I didn’t know you could braid hair.” Harry said, relaxing to watch them.

“I don’t think I can. This looks terrible.” Ron chuckled.

Ron sucked his lower lip and looked at Harry, who raised his eyebrows and leaned back against the couch, arms across the back, an expectant smile spreading.

“Dammit, Ron. Why did you braid my hair?!”

Ron lowered his lips to her ear, turning her head to look at Harry.

“So it doesn’t get in our way,” he whispered.

—————————

His hands gripped her hips, and urged her forward while Harry watched her approach like she was his next meal. She stopped in front of him, and Ron’s hands found their way under her shirt, gently stroking her waist. He trailed small kisses up and down her exposed neck, and her nipples were painfully hard.

“We both want you.” Harry stated hoarsely, a visible bulge in his track pants growing.

“Can we have you, ‘Mione?” Ron whispered against her hair, gently grinding his hardening cock against her backside. She leaned back into him, the solid warmth of his chest grounding her.

Her mind was reeling. This wasn’t at all what she’d had in mind, but Merlin Almighty, she’d never wanted anything so badly in all her life.

“Yes,” she whispered, not sure if it was even audible. She pressed a hand to her lower abdomen and muttered another contraception charm.

Ron and Harry exchanged satisfied glances as Ron’s hands crept higher under her shirt, grazing the lace of her bra. Harry sat up to softly run his hands up the backs of her thighs, stopping just shy of her knickers. His fingers delicately dipped below the edge of the fabric under each cheek, tracing the edge of her covered skin.

Grateful she’d worn a skirt, she leaned her hips forward, urging Harry’s slowly exploring hands. His fingers slid around under the front of the band of each leg opening, lightly grazing her mound. She whimpered and tried to thrust her hips into his non-existent pressure.

Ron’s hands had been holding her by the waist, but now grabbed a hold of the band of her skirt, testing the stretch.

“Arms up,” he gently urged. She complied, and one quick jerk, her skirt and shirt were gone up and over her head.

She barked an embarrassed laugh and crossed her arms over her bra. Both men grinned at her surprise before leaning back in to explore her newly exposed skin.

Harry’s fingers traced the leg bands of her knickers again, this time meeting in the middle to pull the gusset down. His fingertips barely brushed her cleft, and goosebumps ran down her thighs. He withdrew one hand and licked a finger.

“Hermione, if I didn’t know better…” Harry teased, pretending to roll the flavor on his tongue and pinning her with an accusative glare. ”Hm.”

A mortified blush started at her chest and spread like fire to her face. Oh, Circe, he could taste Ron’s come on her. And he was just staring at her, waiting. Harry tasted a second finger and hummed low in disapproval.

“I… uhm… we… table…” she stammered.

Ron broke first, and she felt him giggling against her back while he gripped her breasts. Harry leaned forward, loud guffaws erupting from him, till one finally ended in a snort. He wiped tears from his eyes.

“Oh, Godric, your face.” Harry chuckled. Behind her, Ron was sniffing back tears of laughter.

“You bastards!” she fumed, still in Ron’s embrace. “What is _wrong_ with you two?!”

“Oh, fuck. I’m sorry. Ron, she’s gonna kill me,” Harry laughed.

“Nah,” Ron said, and he plunged his fingers into her knickers straight between her slick folds. Waves of pleasure coursed through her, and a helpless moan escaped her throat. She sagged in his arms, hips moving in time with the stroke of his fingers.

When she opened her eyes, Harry was entirely naked, but she was too occupied with Ron rubbing her clit to be surprised. Harry’s cock laid against the neat line of dark hair that ran down his abdomen.

“Mmm, as seen on TV,” she hummed, watching him stroke slowly. He chuckled.

Ron didn’t get the TV reference, but he was preoccupied with just how incredibly wet she was, and how badly he wanted to taste her. He turned her around to face him, backing her calves against the couch between Harry’s knees.

“Very, very slowly, bend over and take off your knickers, Hermione,” Harry said from behind her.

“And look at me while you do it,” added Ron, who was shimmying out of those damnably tight jeans again.

She bit her lip and hooked her thumbs under the sides of her knickers, slipping them down the first few inches. Ron never looked away from her face. She felt Harry fidget on the couch behind her.

Bending at the waist, she leaned her ass back closer to Harry as she inched the fabric down her hips, letting it peel inside out, clinging to her damp pussy. With a small tug, it fell loose, skating the rest of the way down her thighs to the floor. She held eye contact with Ron while she listened to Harry’s breath quicken.

“Sit,” Harry instructed, placing his hands on her hips to guide her onto his lap. She expected him to pull her straight on top of his cock, and braced herself for its considerable width. Instead, he sat her on his thighs and leaned her back against his chest.

His hands grazed down from her hips and circled to grip her inner thighs. He positioned his thighs under hers, and spread her open as he moved his own legs, supporting her weight, but suspending her pussy at the edge of the couch. The cool air on her wetness made her involuntary try to close her legs, but his hands held firm. His cock rubbed against her lower back in minuscule circles.

Ron knelt, taking her in. Merlin, he thought, she was gorgeous. Her close-cropped hair glistened with moisture, and he reveled in not knowing how much of it was his and how much was her own. Her head rested against Harry’s chest, face peaceful, but eager. 

He wasn’t going to tease her this time, they were going to make her fucking scream.

He bit a hot line up her thigh, lingering to take one of her lips in his teeth. The sudden movement made her squirm, but Harry’s hands kept her from moving. He moaned, and the vibration traveled through to her core, making her moan with him. He licked a quick line up her slit, teasing out her swollen clit, before catching it with his lips.

Her hips bucked, and Harry nearly lost his grip on her. Ron slowed, alternating between sucking and licking, letting her join him in a rhythm. Sweet tension was building quickly, and she knew she was close to coming. With just enough presence of mind, she realized she didn’t want to come without someone inside her.

“Close…” she gasped. “Fingers?”

Harry moaned softly behind her, grinding his cock against her back.

“Do you want to come on Ron’s fingers?” he said huskily.

“Please.”

“So polite.” Harry nodded to Ron, and he slid two fingers in, knuckle-deep.

A guttural moan tore itself from her throat and she arched her back. Ron picked up the pace of his licking and sucking, and she felt herself tightening around his fingers. 

Her hips rocked with him until the tension crescendoed, stuttered, and broke into waves as she spasmed around his fingers and she came moaning.

Ron waited until her body stopped gripping him, and slid his fingers out. She sighed, her eyelids getting heavy. Ron stood in front of her as Harry closed her legs.

She felt Harry nod in beckoning, and Ron held his fingers out. Harry sucked her juices off Ron’s fingers, and she moaned softly watching them. They were so comfortable with each other. The security of being between them relaxed her down onto Harry’s warm chest. Her eyes were closed before she realized it.

Harry’s voice rumbled from below her. “You’ve got a cock to ride before you can sleep, greedy witch.”

“Greedy witch, indeed.” Ron scolded. “And you know, I don’t think I’d object to coming in your mouth while you do so, ‘Mione.”

She smiled and hummed in agreement and leaned forward to lift her hips off of Harry. He slid down further on the couch to give her room. Reaching underneath for his length, she rubbed the head of him along her slit, circling over her clit. His breath hissed in and his hips gave an involuntary jerk.

“Gods, woman. Don’t bring me early.”

She grinned, and slid his head to her opening. The tip fit easily, but getting the girth of his head took her hand easing one side, then the other, until the crown slid inside, passing the tight ring of muscle at her entrance. Her whole core spasmed deliciously in response to the stretch, setting off a small orgasm.

She moaned and lowered herself down to his hips, his shaft sliding easily inside. He groaned and gripped her hips.

Ron waited, watching them, stroking his erection. Hermione looked up to him and reached out to wrap her fingers around his length. Leaning out with her hands on Harry’s thighs, she slid Ron’s cock in her mouth in one long thrust. He arched his back and groaned.

Neither of them moved. Harry’s thumbs stroked her hips, and she caught on that she was responsible for all of the movement.

Easing back from Ron, she lifted forward up Harry’s cock and sliding Ron back into her throat. She shut her eyes, sinking into the feeling of them both moving inside her as she rocked in short motions back and forth. Ron slipping along her tongue, and Harry’s cock brushing nerves deep inside brought a moan from her, and Ron gasped.

Speeding up, she arched her back to take Harry in longer, harder strokes, and grind her clit against his pelvis. Heat pooled deep in her core, threatening to spill over too soon. Harry’s grip tightened, Ron’s hips tensed, and she sank herself down on Harry’s cock one last time before pleasure overwhelmed her.

She screamed her muffled climax around Ron’s cock as her muscles spasmed around Harry, wringing him into her.

Ron flooded her mouth and moaned her name, while Harry pulled her down by the waist and held her tight, spilling himself in her with a shout. Her core milked him in small squeezes as Ron withdrew himself, and she steadied her breathing.

“Fuck, ‘Mione.” Ron swore, as he bent down to kiss her. She smiled, and leaned back against Harry’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair. She relaxed into him and her eyelids felt heavy again.

“Oh, shit.” Harry said, tensing up behind her. “Malfoy.”

“What?!” she jumped up off of Harry, pulling him out too quickly. She winced at the sudden stretch. More slowly next time, she told herself.

“He’s going to be back any second.” Harry said, shuffling into his clothes.

“Ah, bollocks,” grumbled Ron, handing Hermione her shirt and skirt. The knickers were soaked, and she shoved them under the couch. A handful of napkins from the takeaway order sufficed for cleaning herself off. Her skirt was long enough that she wasn’t terribly worried about going naked under it.

“Kinda wish he wasn’t coming back,” Ron grumbled. “Like, ever.”

Hermione looked up from straightening her clothes, “You’re free to back out, Ron. I trust you, and I want you, but it’s your decision.”

Ron scratched his beard and chose his words carefully. “I don’t like it. For the record. I don’t like him being involved. But far be it from me to tell you what to do. Plus, I do trust you, ‘Mione. And I’m sure he knows we’ll beat his scrawny ponce ass if he hurts you. Harry, you in?”

Harry plopped back on the sofa, clothed and grinning. “Hell, yes. I make the _worst_ decisions, and this sounds fun.”

Hermione shook her head. “Very reassuring.”

Ron began transferring his piles of documents from the sofa into his backpack, when a feathered cannonball hit the couch, followed by a gust of wind. A rumpled mahogany and white eagle rolled to sitting next to Harry, who was curled defensively in the corner of the sofa. Papers fluttered to the floor as Ron swore under his breath.

The massive bird hopped off the couch and melted into an underwear-clad Malfoy standing on the carpet. Platinum hair askew, cheeks pink, and eyes shining, Hermione thought he was quite a lovely sight to behold. The lean, defined torso was rather nice, as well. Faint scars criss-crossing his chest surprised her, though.

“Everything okay?” she asked, struggling to keep her eyes north of his chest.

Harry could smell the wind on Malfoy, and it made him wistful. Distractedly, he wondered if Malfoy had ever chased a Snitch as an eagle. That would make for a very short match. 

Ignoring his clothes, Malfoy crossed to the kitchen and took a long drink straight from the faucet, scrubbing his hands with his face, and wiping off on a towel. He was in a visibly better mood.

Malfoy turned, striding to his pile of discarded clothing. This room absolutely fucking reeked of sex now. One of them, he assumed Weasley, had braided her hair. And all three of them looked very happily rumpled. Malfoy smirked. Maybe this venture could be worth the trouble. 

“Yeah, they’re fine. They found an open dumpster behind a sushi place.”

Ron snorted. “Loyal friends you’ve got.”

Malfoy shrugged, elegantly balancing to put his socks on. “Opportunistic.”

Harry snapped back from fantasies of catching Snitches in talons and blurted, “I have _so many_ questions.”

Pulling up his pants, Malfoy grinned. “Ten-thousand foot altitudes and one-hundred and fifty mile an hour dives. Roughly.”

“Merlin…” Harry gasped. Malfoy nodded and hummed his agreement, zipping up and slipping his shoes on. Harry thought Malfoy looked like he’d just had the shag of his life and was preparing for a second round. He made a promise to himself to research the Animagus potion soon. 

Malfoy slipped his shirt on, and Harry caught a glimpse of fine white scars across his abdomen. He hadn’t given a second thought to whether the damage from his curse had left a mark, assuming a Healer had taken care of it. Apparently not. Malfoy caught him looking and smiled softly. Harry felt a flush of guilt, but it didn’t seem like Malfoy held any resentment.

Buttoning his cuffs, Malfoy rummaged through his trouser pockets. “Granger, I’ll give you my post address in Truro, and you can let me know what you decide.”

“Truro?!” Ron barked. “That’s way too close to the Burrow.” Godric, they were practically neighbors, and he hadn’t known. Malfoy dismissed the outburst with a shrug.

“Oh, decide about what?” she asked, disoriented by the sight of him dressing, and fighting a post-coital nap.

Malfoy bit his lip and smirked. “Whether you’d like to fuck me behind Weasley’s back or where he can watch.”

“Oh, fuck off and stay fucked off, Malfoy.” Ron muttered half-heartedly.

“Lady’s choice.” Malfoy chuckled, hands raised in surrender. “Nice braid.”

“Fine, fine. Lady’s choice.” Ron nodded, cringing a little. It was a shitty braid. He made a mental note to ask one of his sisters-in-law to teach him how to do it properly.

Malfoy straightened, addressing the room, “Alright, well. I had an awful time, and I hope to not see any of you too terribly soon. Potter,” he said, turning to Harry, “lovely to finally get a good look at you.” He shot Harry an awkward thumbs up at hip level.

Harry’s face flushed, and he again questioned his decision to not stay dead.

Handing the note off to Hermione, Malfoy headed for the door.

“Why a Muggle post box?” Hermione asked, looking at the address.

“And why the bloody bomber owls?” Ron chimed in.

“The last free Death Eater is quite a catch,” he said, winking to Hermione. Holding Harry’s gaze a moment, he turned and left.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
H

Oh, the Brightest Witch of Our Age,  
She isn’t very smart.  
Calm in the storm,  
She asks,  
Would I perform?  
Hah! Merlin, it’s my art.  
You chose your villain, where’s the stage?

DLM 2007 Cardiff  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	6. Fly-by-Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auror Potter is on the case... of snooping through records about Malfoy, because... reasons. Platonic reasons.  
> Ron gets injured. Malfoy's a Healer? A Dark Arts Healer? That's a thing? Why? How? What?  
> Molly Weasley serves up cake and regret.  
> Narcissa and Lucius are both terrible humans.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Yule Ball

“Happy Yule,” she said to no one,  
and received no reply.  
Maybe if you weren’t a bitch,  
I’d say more than I did.

But the wrapping’s come undone.  
As it stands, be grateful for my sigh.  
I swear I saw him twitch,  
A soft reply, as bid.

DLM 2004 Azkaban  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************  


“Oi, you’re not supposed to be here!” shouted a man's voice, cutting through the silence of the dim vault.

Harry jumped, nearly dropping his coffee. “Adams, you fuckwit! ‘Bout pissed myself.”

“Sorry, Potter. But really, why are you down here on your day off?”

“Oh…” Harry groaned. He’d forgotten he wasn’t on the schedule today, and had shown up out of habit. It explained why he didn’t have any fresh cases on his desk all morning. “Uhm, just doing some side research. Off the clock.”

Adams leaned against the opposite wall of file drawers, not in a hurry to go anywhere. His stocky build always reminded him of Ron, but his carefully-coiffed brunette side-part made him look like a lecherous lounge singer. 

“Why are _you_ down here? Just generally avoiding your cases again?” Harry asked disapprovingly.

“Nah. Yeah. Kinda. Got a Howler and figured opening it at my desk was poor form.” He waved a scarlet envelope.

Luckily, Adams wasn’t the type to give much of a shit about his coworkers beyond active case investigation. Harry was grateful for his disinterest today, despite how much a pain in the ass Adams was as a colleague.

“Right, well, I’ll be in the disarm chamber. Have fun snooping.” Adams said, straightening to leave. Harry was momentarily concerned what the hell kind of Howlers warranted opening a space designed for defusing lethal charms.

He watched Adams leave before turning back to the file cabinet drawer.

Harry was not snooping. No, snooping implied that he didn’t have the authority or justification to be down in the records vault. He was an Auror, and he was investigating the criminal history of a parolee because…. The felon in question had recently… Something… Hm.

What was he going to say if someone noticed he’d accessed the records? He couldn’t touch them without it being magically recorded in a log somewhere upstairs.

“Oh!” he exclaimed softly to himself. He’d intercepted that owl addressed to Malfoy! 

He had just cause to look into the case files, given that he’d intervened. Granted, that also meant he should fill out a report about the owl, but that would result in a lot of questions. A missing report was a slap on the wrist compared to having his sex life critiqued at work.

The number of Malfoys with case files was alarming. Though, he surmised, it wasn’t so different with Muggles. The wealthy could afford fines and dodge incarceration, so perhaps they were more prone to petty crime.

A slim white file stood out amongst the other colors. “Malfoy, D. L., Jun. 5, 1980, #58720”.

Harry pulled it halfway up, and peeked inside. A single paper, printed on Ministry letterhead was visible.

“Records for #58720 stored in office of G. Robards. Available upon request.”

Harry sighed and tucked the file back down. That wasn’t helpful. Disarming an owl wasn’t a good enough reason to put in a request for restricted records.

Not willing to call his forfeited day a loss, his fingers walked further back in the drawer to a thick folder labelled “Malfoy, L.A., Sep. 8, 1955, #51487, 1 of 5”.

Four equally-packed folders sat behind this one. Taking in the drawer as a whole, he noted that Lucius’s records took up half the damn drawer. Merlin’s mustache, that was a lot of paperwork. He pitied the Aurors who’d had to fill all of this out.

Pulling the first folder, he opened it to an index on the first page. A case folder that required an index was new to him. And there were tabs in the folder. That wasn’t standard.

The index listed Lucius’s charges in the order they’d been filed. This whole folder looked to be from his youth, which, while interesting, wasn’t what Harry was really hunting for.

Sliding it back in place, he pulled the fifth folder out. This one was still crisp, which was surprising, given Lucius had been in Azkaban for over five years now. Opening it, he noted this one didn’t have tabs or an index. In fact, it didn’t have anything but row after row of the same table. Pages upon pages of the same table.

The first column was labelled “Date Charges Filed”, all from 2003, in chronological order. Someone had had to deal with a mountain of paperwork four years ago. Poor bastards.

The second column was labelled “Status”, under which every entry was labelled as “Pending”. Good Godric, Harry thought. Lucius Malfoy had hundreds of criminal charges still pending.

The third column should have been the charge, but every line repeated “Statute Pending”. That was odd. Either something was or wasn’t a crime.

The fourth column was labelled “Incident Date”, and the dates varied wildly between the mid 1980’s and 2003. Filing charges several years after an incident date wasn’t uncommon, but he’d never seen decades-long delays.

The last column was labelled “Source”, which was generally used to link evidence to the case for ease of prosecution. This column just had “#58720” in every blank. Shrugging, Harry figured it was a mistake.

He tucked the file back in, and stepped back to slide the drawer shut, when “Malfoy, D. L., Jun. 5, 1980, #58720” on the white folder caught his eye.

“No…” he whispered to himself. The Source number matched Malfoy’s identification number. Malfoy was the source witness for absolutely hundreds of crimes against his own father. Had he testified willingly? Was that how he’d gotten such a short sentence in Azkaban? Why were the incident dates so spread out?

Harry had more questions now than when he’d started snooping. Investigating. Not snooping. Aurors do not snoop.

A heavy door slammed shut around the corner, and Harry jumped. Adams came strolling along the side aisle, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “Good Howler?” Harry called, hating Adams’ shit-eating grin.

“Hm. I do like ‘em feisty,” he said with a smirk, swinging the main door open.

Harry scratched his chin, thinking. Maybe there were details about the charges in the fourth folder. He pulled it, searching for the start of the seemingly endless table of dates.

“Summary of Pending Actions” grabbed his attention. “Charges awaiting trial, pending statute clarification by Wizengamot Committee on Wizard Rights. Scheduled September 30th, 2007.”

Harry struggled to make sense of the bureaucratic wording. Whatever all these charges were that Malfoy had filed against his father, they were for a crime that maybe wasn’t a crime? What was the Committee on Wizard Rights, anyway? Whatever it was, they were meeting next month. 

So, if he was interpreting this correctly, after this Committee decision, Lucius either would or wouldn’t be prosecuted for hundreds of additional crimes? No wonder Malfoy’s file was in Robards’ office. It probably took up an entire wall.

Checking the time, Harry put the folder back and shut the drawer. A quick peruse through the next drawer showed a similar situation for Narcissa’s records. An entire folder with the same table of pending charges, all with Malfoy listed as the source again.

Whatever Lucius and Narcissa had been doing for decades, Malfoy had spilled the family secrets, smeared them like jam all over the Ministry records, and walked away. If he’d done this with all the Death Eaters, it was no wonder he was accustomed to receiving lethal owls.

It was either incredibly brave, or incredibly cowardly, depending on whether Malfoy’s goal had been justice or avoiding Azkaban. Maybe it was both.

Harry slid the drawer shut and considered checking the files of the other known Death Eaters in Azkaban, but figured it wouldn’t yield anything more detailed. He’d check Lucius and Narcissa’s files again in October.

Stretching, he grabbed his coffee from the top of the file cabinet and headed for the door. Maybe he’d go bug Ron at the store to kill the afternoon. It wasn’t pestering if he brought lunch.

—————————

Draco twirled one of the extra baseball cards pinched between two fingers. Visiting Azkaban really wasn’t a major hardship, and they knew it. Minimum-security family visits meant it was just him and his parents at this conference table with two bored guards standing in the corners. 

The cell block guards would escort them in and hand them off to these two men. All of them bristled with an assortment of magical weaponry. They had a few new toys on their belts, he noticed. Ones he hadn’t tasted during his stay. Superb.

The amount of firepower granted to the guards was absurd, and he’d always wondered what would have happened if he’d have disarmed one and used their Ministry-issued weapons. Instant death, most likely.

The place was warded to execute, but not keyed to Blood Magic at all. A major oversight on the Ministry’s part, but not surprising, given their chosen ignorance. The familiar whine of Blood Magic echoed down the hall of Death Eaters on a regular basis.

A wandless _Lumos_ would have dropped him immediately, but he could melt through stone with Blood Magic, and no one noticed. A lack of proficiency and wings was likely all that kept the other Death Eaters in their cells.

He’d realized after the first few months of his sentence that he could probably melt the walls and fly away. But then he’d be on the run for the rest of his life. Another ten months in a cell had been the better choice. Probably.

He slid the card back in the stack with the other four, examining the pictures of the men in their uniforms. With a sigh, he inspected his attire. This visit had to happen soon, anyway. And Azkaban wasn’t _that_ horrific. Or maybe his upbringing had just been excellent preparation.

Actually, the time spent in a solitary cell with unlimited reading materials hadn’t been terrible at all. Even the Oubliette had its charms. And he eventually got to volunteer some in the infirmary. Emptying his brain into Pensieve vials with Robards had been the lowlight of the day for months, but not intolerable.

The three meals a day with Narcissa and Lucius had been the real torture. Literally. They’d resumed their lifelong practice of flanking him at the table, each with a hand in contact with him. Subtly, slowly, drawing Blood Magic curses through him. 

Sometimes it was random jolts. Sometimes it was a highly codified signal system of behavior modification. It was a fun game of “See how we still own you.” An entire language spoken in syllables of pain.

Eating soup too loudly generally resulted in a scalding sensation down one arm. Not paying attention to conversation yielded electric shocks in one ear. His teeth accidentally clinking against fork tines still made him feel his mother’s razor-sharp lines of magic down his cheek. But the triggers were fading.

He hadn’t realized formal dinners could _be_ enjoyable until he started getting heirs-only invitations from his peers. Grinning, he wondered, for the umpteenth time, how Pansy had folded napkins into genitalia for his fifteenth birthday dinner.

The door clicked, ruining his reverie. Narcissa entered, Lucius on her heels. The guards exchanged bored glances and a set of keys while his parents… no… The Malfoys settled themselves into horrible plebeian office chairs.

Her hair was in a braid, which was unusual, and Lucious was glaring at her. It surprised him how quickly he’d adjusted to seeing them in their gray prison jumpsuits. Remembering them in formalwear almost felt disingenuous. 

“Lovely plait,” Draco said offhandedly, thumbnail worrying the edge of the file folder he’d brought along.

“Lovely mop,” she retorted. “Getting a bit neglected, aren’t we?”

“Why change course now?” he shot back.

Lucius cleared his throat, and Draco welcomed the intrusion. He hadn’t come here for a fight.

“Right.” Draco sighed, straightening. “Odbert requires signatures, both in ink and in magic.” He slid the folder and a Muggle ink pen across the table with a nod to the nearer guard. The guard would need to supervise the magical signature.

“Did you fritter it all away already?” Narcissa sniped. “Spend it all on pretty boys and Elf wine?” She didn’t look at him as she spoke, not bothering to lower herself to something as base as eye contact with her own son.

He bit the inside of his lip, rethinking what was going to be a casual lie about redecorating the Manor. If she was in the mood to fight, she’d interrogate his plans and follow up on them until she found a crack in his story.

“Cissy…” Lucius warned, taking out the forms.

It was almost heartening the way Lucius had gradually come to not care who he bedded. Pity the sentiment hadn’t spread to her.

“Well,” Narcissa huffed indignantly, “I just think we ought to know why he suddenly wants access to…” She trailed off, leaning over to inspect the papers. “… to our _personal_ vaults when he has his own. Seems suspicious to me, Lucius.”

Lucius tapped the end of the pen against the paper. “It is a bit odd, Draco. The estate vaults are yours by right, and we’d be happy to sign a release for those.”

 _Shit shit shit_ , he thought, mind racing. The Ministry had liquidated that vault years ago. He _needed_ access to their personal treasure troves. If they were released next year with any assets to their names, they’d be a danger.

Surviving in financial destitution was his happy mud pit, and he couldn’t hope to stand against them unless he pulled them into it. It was time for a whizz-bang of a diversion.

“I… was hoping to look around for some jewelry,” he articulated slowly. Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Rings, in particular.”

“Oh?” Lucius inquired, interest thoroughly piqued. “And who is the lucky witch?”

“Or wizard,” Narcissa spat.

He was grateful he hadn’t eaten breakfast, because it would have threatened to come up. He was going to owe her such a debt for corroborating this lie.

“Well,” he started, “Pansy and I aren’t getting any younger.”

Narcissa squealed, macabre grin splitting her face as she bounced and clapped her hands. Sometimes, she looked and acted entirely too much like Aunt Bella, and it made his blood run cold.

Lucius simply nodded and signed the paper. “Logical choice. I believe there’s a set of emerald rings in a desk drawer in mine.” He glanced over to the guard for permission to press a magical signature into a square on the form.

Narcissa tented her hands over her mouth, stifling her squeal. “Oh, no, Lucy, I think Pansy would like the fire opal set my grandparents wore.” She snatched the pen from him and slammed a magical signature onto the paper without consulting the guards.

Draco grimaced, already planning to tell them Pansy dumped him in a month or so. And fire opals? Who wore fire opals? Certainly not the de mode Pansy Parkinson.

“Darling,” Narcissa cooed, “please don’t elope. I know your generation feels it’s… liberating, but it’s terribly gauche.”

“Right,” he ceded, taking the folder and pen back.

Narcissa gasped, and he flinched. “A winter wedding in the gardens, Lucy! Not _this_ winter, of course, but next winter.”

Draco pushed his chair away, relieved to get their signatures, but already worrying about the issues he’d just created down the line. Gardens? They didn’t own any fucking gardens.

“Anyway, I’m off,” he said, rising. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Be careful, son,” Lucius murmured, frowning under Narcissa’s sudden fawning.

The door to the visitation room swung open, and he stepped through.

One-hundred and sixty-fourth visit, not that he was counting.

—————————

Ron was _not_ having a good cry in his office. An executive decompression workshop, sure. But definitely not crying in his desk chair.

His floor manager had up and quit to chase a woman across Scotland, he’d caught two of his best employees helping themselves to petty cash, the store expansion was delayed into next month, his excavation at the Burrow had unexpectedly hit bedrock, and he’d forgotten his sodding lunch.

There would be no way to get new staff trained and find a way to shelve the expanded merchandise before the Hogwarts student body descended on the store like pubescent locusts next week. 

For the eighth time that day, he considered running away to chase dragons with his feckless brothers. It would serve them right for shoving the store off on him after they got bored with it.

“Fucking hell.” Ron sniffed, wiping his eyes. The expansion had been on track for the start of the term. Moving the store beyond candy and pranks had been his goal for five years, now he’d be missing the critical window. _Weasley’s Emporium_ would have to wait, he surmised.

Expanding the footprint of the store was going to be critical to justifying its finances. The sudden and dramatic increase in revenue was sure to raise eyebrows sometime soon. He was surprised, as an early investor, that Harry hadn’t noticed. He really didn’t want to pit their friendship against his Auror loyalty.

Maybe he could put together a grand re-opening in November for Christmas shopping. Actually, that was a solid plan. And his lead cashier knew most of the floor manager duties. She was more reliable than the wanker on his way to Scotland, too.

“Okay,” he sighed, picking up a quill to jot down the fires he needed to put out this afternoon.

Something thudded softly, but firmly, against his door. Not a knock. He waited, figuring it was an accident.

Two thuds in a row sounded, followed by someone rattling the doorknob. Annoyed, Ron kicked off and wheeled the chair over to the door. He would never admit how much time he spent kicking around the room in the chair.

“Harry? What gives?” Ron said, finding Harry readying himself for a third round of headbutting the door.

“Mmph hmph mm mm,” Harry hummed around a bag in his teeth. Ron took the paper bag. “My hands were full. Thanks.”

“So set one down,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Plonker.”

He opened the bag and rolled his eyes. Dried hibiscus flowers taunted him.

“And here I thought you’d brought me something. Mum’ll be thrilled. You are her favorite son, after all.”

“I was near that cafe, so I stopped.” Harry held out one of the other bags. “This one’s for you.”

Ron opened the bag tentatively, hoping it wasn’t quiche. A sandwich and crisps greeted him.

Harry sat on a dusty office chair, taking in the tissues on the desk, and his friend’s red-rimmed eyes.

“So, how’s the expansion going?” he asked, already guessing the answer.

“Well,” Ron mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich. “Not great. But I think it’ll work out.”

He filled Harry in on the day’s woes, feeling immeasurably better by the time he got to the bottom of his crisps. Brushing off his hands, he examined Harry’s attire. “Did you go to work on your day off again, mate?”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” He considered telling Ron about looking through the Malfoys’ files, but decided against it. They’d left Hermione’s flat on decent terms a few nights ago, and he wasn’t eager to ruin that.

“You need some hobbies, Har.” 

Ron turned back to his desk and list of smoldering fires. With a now-clearer head, none of the issues seemed huge. Most of them looked rather dull, actually.

“I have hobbies,” Harry replied unconvincingly.

“You have vices, at best,” Ron said conclusively. “I’ve got like, one thing to take care of on the way out, then you wanna blow bedrock up at the Burrow?”

“Godric, yes.” 

“Hang on,” Ron said, hearing a welcome voice out in the hall. He wheeled himself over to the door and stuck his head out. “Jacinda! Wanna be floor manager?”

Harry heard a woman utter a questioning “Yes?”

“Great! Congrats! Hire a couple new faces out of the pool, and we’ll sort it tomorrow.”

A sliver of envy prickled in Harry that he could never autonomously alter the course of three people’s lives in a single interaction like that. Everything he did was swaddled in red tape and paperwork. Not without cause, granted. An Auror’s arsenal was more destructive than the granting of middle management positions.

But, still.

—————————

Draco was absolutely having an existential crisis instead of a nap, and it was decidedly not restful. The noon sun was usually enough to make him nod off, but today, sprawling in bed and contemplating his overall reason for living won out. _Heir to the Malfoy Misfortune_ , he thought to himself. None of that mattered anymore.

At least the bed was nice, he thought. Pondering crises of being in Azkaban had been less comfortable. Physically, at least.

The bed had come out of the estate vault years ago. The Ministry appraiser had deemed it worthless, and thus available to him. He’d actually been prepared to negotiate with Robards after seeing them pull it out, and maybe Robards had picked up on that.

It was enormous. Nearly a room unto itself. The frame was low, but nothing special. The mattress, however, was a smooth, almost-too-hard, feather-packed expanse that curved up gently around the edges and wafted a delicate, sweet, earthy scent. He didn’t like to admit it, but it was very reminiscent of a nest, and he suspected the feathers weren’t from ordinary birds.

In lieu of a headboard, the bed was pushed up against an outcrop of the stone wall. The top of the outcrop made a handy shoulder-height shelf when sitting leaned against it. Not a bad height for bending someone over, either. If it weren’t covered in treasures.

Sitting up against it, he inspected the clutter on either side of his shoulders: Books in various stages of progress, his small blade for highly-dubious magic, his glasses, journals, pens, a jar of India ink, three sketch books, two half-consumed cups of tea, shiny rocks, shells, sea glass, candles, matches, and a few pearls.

It struck him as something a magpie would accumulate, and he huffed a small laugh. The pearls were his favorite, and he rolled them around in his palm. Two of them, he’d almost cracked his beak on, not expecting them in the mussels he’d been eating. After that, he’d gotten more cautious. Mussels were a rare and dangerous treat.

There were four, and they were raggedy, lovely things; awkward blobs of shimmery peach and ivory nacre. 

Such a far cry from the ludicrously uniform necklaces Narcissa had owned. Narcissa in pearls was a contrived, polished, entirely fake thing. He’d stopped thinking of her as “mother” years ago. 

His little baubles were his, owing their life in the sun to him, and him alone. He ran the largest one, a blushing pink disc like a glazed rose petal, across his lip, feeling the subtle dips and ripples in the enamel. The urge to pop it in his mouth and roll it around was squelched by the irrational fear he’d accidentally swallow it. There was a rough spot on one end, and he rubbed it against his lower lip, thinking.

They were interesting, and distracting enough to tug his mind away from his existential dread long enough to refocus.

Perhaps it was enough to spend his life finding beautiful things in the bay and bringing them to the surface. It was a far cry from being raised to inherit and run an empire, but maybe it was enough. _Draco Magpie_ , he mused. It had a certain ring to it.

Calmer, he set the pearls back in their shells, and slid back down onto a pillow. It was a sunny day, but the sun seemed to have come out from behind a cloud, regardless. An exceedingly bright day, he thought, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he exclaimed, as blue-white light drifted in through his window, coalescing into a stag. “Potter, you utter fucking tosser!”

Turning, the stag beckoned him to follow. “No! I’m not doing this again!”

The stag reared, preparing to charge the bed. Draco yelped and rolled off the opposite side of the bed. He and the stag glared a challenge at each other. The stag lowered its head in silent supplication.

“Fine,” he huffed, throwing on clothes and stuffing his pockets with necessities from the ledge. “Let’s go.”

———————

The Patronus put on impressive speed at cruising height, and he struggled to keep up. His eagle convoy was miles behind.

His suspicions were confirmed when it led him to the Burrow, and promptly wisped out of existence. Wary of hitting the Weasleys’ wards, he circled, testing for resistance. Feeling none, he coasted down in the direction the Patronus had been traveling.

The field was an absolute battlefield of man versus earth. Heaps of soil and piles of rubble littered the plain. Several immense pits gouged the landscape. Dread crept through him as he scanned. What the fuck had happened here?

Vaguely, he heard someone yelling. A man was yelling his name. Potter. 

He caught movement and saw Potter waving one arm like a madman. He was sitting atop a prone form with flame-colored hair. Around Potter, the person, presumably Ron, was drenched in maroon. 

Blood, he realized. An entire human body’s worth of blood.

Landing and trotting up to them, he took in the situation before he could make out Potter’s words. Potter had his knee dug into Weasley’s groin on one side, and his fingers on one of Weasley’s wrists. Salazar, there was so much blood.

Potter’s entire torso was smeared in it. The rest of him was coated in gray rock dust. It turned his black hair ashen, and smeared his glasses. 

This was how he remembered Potter. Glasses askew, covered in chaos.

“Malfoy! Fuck! We were busting up rock and then he was screaming and bleeding and then he stopped moving and I can’t fucking Apparate like this and I can’t get him to the Floo and everybody’s gone and-” Potter continued, but Malfoy had garnered what he needed already.

“You have your wand, Potter?” he asked calmly, old training taking over.

“Yeah, and I did what I could, but I only know triage spells and it wasn’t enough and every time I move more blood-“ He stopped short as Malfoy held a hand up to quiet him.

“How’s his pulse?”

“Too fast, and almost gone.” Harry replied shakily. “I wasn’t sure if you knew better spells, or could just Apparate him, or-“

“I can’t do any of that, Potter. Conditions of parole.”

“Oh, shit. Shit shit shit shit…” Harry chanted. Tears trickled from under the frames of his glasses, soaking into the layer of dust on his cheeks. 

Godric, Harry thought, why hadn’t he sent the Patronus to someone who could fucking Apparate? Or at least someone who had a fucking wand at their disposal. He’d known Malfoy was on parole. And he knew what typical restrictions were. He was an Auror. A fucking stupid Auror.

Harry watched Malfoy take a small knife from his pocket and balance on the balls of his feet between Ron’s thighs. Slipping the tip of the knife gash in the fabric near Harry’s knee, he cut the trousers carefully around Harry’s knee, then split them up to the waistband, effectively baring Ron’s whole hip. Pooled blood flowed out from under the trousers, and Harry's vision quavered.

Malfoy frowned as his fingertips slicked the edge of Ron’s briefs as he honed in on the weak pulse above Harry’s knee. He sighed heavily. Harry’s assessment had been accurate. Ron’s pulse was nothing but a faint whisper under his fingers.

“If we can get him to the Floo, I can get him-“ Harry started, panicking at the sight of all the blood that came away with the fabric.

“We can’t get him to the house.” Malfoy said, kneeling. Blood soaked into his trousers without his notice.

Malfoy looked at the thin blade and worn, ornate handle in his hand and the fine white lines that melded together between his fingers. Harry squinted through dusty glasses, not sure what the other man was doing.

“Potter, how litigious an Auror are you?” he asked, studying Harry’s face carefully.

“What?” Harry asked, startled. It was an odd time to be discussing his work-related ethics.

“I can fix this, but I’m not going back to Azkaban because you couldn’t keep your Muggleborn mouth shut,” he spat, knowing full well Potter was clueless.

Harry was torn between suspecting Malfoy’s cure was worse than the disease and his desperation at losing Ron. It wasn’t Ron’s fault Harry had made the idiotic choice to summon the only wizard he knew who was incapable of Apparition.

“If it saves him, I don’t care what it is,” he decided.

Malfoy grinned. “Alright, Potter, but I swear to Salazar, you take this to your grave, or I put you in it early.”

“Fine, fine,” Harry choked out. “Just do it!” 

Malfoy slid the blade between his ring and middle finger, not flinching. A slow trickle of blood ran down his palm. His lips moved, but Harry couldn’t make out any words.

Magic prickled up Harry’s neck, spreading over his face in hot pinpoints. The magic was suffocating and hot and tasted like sweat. He’d expected Malfoy to slip a secret want out of his pocket, not whatever this was. 

“Okay,” whispered Malfoy. “When I say move, roll as far away as you can.”

Harry nodded, eager to get away from whatever magic this was.

Malfoy cupped his hand, gathering a small pool of blood in his palm. The weight of the power around Harry flowed toward Malfoy’s hand, and Harry took a deep breath, glad to be rid of it. Malfoy was whispering again, and the air around his hand vibrated.

“Now!” he yelled, and thrust his palm onto Ron’s thigh. Harry barely had time to move his knee before Malfoy’s hand crashed down. Rolling away and coming to his knees, he watched as Malfoy grit his teeth, shut his eyes, and pushed the vibrating mass down with the weight of his body. He was breathing hard, lips still moving, hand clawing into Ron’s shredded flesh.

The vibration turned into an audible whine as Malfoy’s other hand went to Ron’s chest. It was a vaguely familiar sound, but Harry couldn’t place it.

Sweat dripped down Malfoy’s nose as he panted, crushing some unseen force into Ron’s wound.

Malfoy’s face relaxed as his breathing slowed. Still whispering, his hand slowly moved down Ron’s torso to lay over the hand on his wound.

Harry watched as Malfoy’s hands slid to a cupped position over the wound, his lips stilling and eyes opening.

“Mal-“ Harry started.

Malfoy scowled and shook his head. Tilting his hands and opening them, a large, bloody shard of granite tumbled out. 

Harry paled. It was the size of his hand. That should have taken Ron’s leg off.

Ron was breathing steadily, and some color had come to his cheeks. Malfoy still wouldn’t look at him for confirmation, but a sob of relief was building in Harry’s throat.

Malfoy’s eyes were shut, and he was mouthing something again. His hands had started an elegant, repetitive pattern of weaving and plucking. 

Enraptured, Harry mused that it looked like sewing and playing a harp. Malfoy’s fingers seemed to touch something physical and bounce away with each pluck.

Eyes turning up to Malfoy’s face, he noted the man looked positively wrung out. His color had been high when he started, and now he didn’t look much better than Ron had.

Malfoy turned, catching Harry’s gaze, too tired to interpret it.

“Done,” he breathed, and sat down hard on the ground by Ron’s feet.

Harry rushed to Ron, checking his pulse. Ron moaned and opened one eye cautiously.

“Ron! Fuck! Oh, thank Merlin!” Harry gushed, relief finally breaking from his throat.

Ron rolled to one shoulder and took in the mess of his trousers and the blood that was just… everywhere.

His fingers found the bloody sliver of rock and held it up, eyes wide. Sitting up, he noticed Malfoy, who was pressing the small cut between his fingers with the hem of his shirt.

Ron took in the cut on Malfoy’s hand, the slender blade resting on his thigh, and the unholy amount of blood. Malfoy looked up to find Ron glaring at him.

Harry watched Ron’s reaction, confused. He didn’t expect Ron to leap into Malfoy’s arms, but the man had just saved his life.

Malfoy’s tired smirk didn’t reach his eyes. “Good morning, kin.”

“What the _fuck_ did you let him do, Harry?!”

——————————————

_He wanted to talk to them, but couldn’t find a voice in the dream. The eaglets bounced around him as he walked through the rubble field outside the Burrow. Four of them again._

_Their movements had become more intentional in the last few months. They no longer careened in unpredictable directions, but tended to stay in his proximity._

_His hand skimmed the hair on their heads as they drifted next to him. Reaching the spot Ron had been laid out, he stopped to examine the area. Old blood soaked the ground like tar oozing up from the dirt._

_His throat worked, trying to address them, but no words formed. It was difficult enough steering his vision and motion._

_What would he call them, anyway? They weren’t eagles anymore._

_One of them drifted into the middle of the patch of blood and froze. He could only watch its head turned, and he saw a face for the first time._

_Brown eyes bored into him, and the child blinked. Its body pivoted, and it turned to walk to him, feet solidly on the ground. Draco blinked, and the child had deep auburn hair._

_The child touched his hand, and he woke to a woman screaming._

——————————————

Ron sat on the toilet lid, still furious enough to be snapping at Harry while he showered. The bathroom on the top floor of the house was practically made for private feuds, which this had become.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t let you die. Okay, Ron?” Harry said sarcastically. He was scrubbing Ron’s blood off his own arms, and the irony wasn’t lost.

“I know, it’s just complicated.” Ron sighed. “You couldn’t have known.”

Harry moved on to washing his hair. He could have just rinsed the rock dust out, but Ginny had left some very expensive shampoo back home.

“So, maybe explain what the fuck I just watched? Cuz I’m a sodding Auror, and I don’t know what that was. Or why he could do it without a wand. Or why he was worried about me ratting him out, but not worried about setting off the Ministry’s Trace on him.”

Ron turned to face the shower, resting his elbow on the toilet tank.

He sighed, trying to decide how much was wise to tell Harry. The man wasn’t famous for discretion.

“Okay. So. Blood magic.” Ron said with unwarranted authority. “Uh… yeah.”

“Great explanation, Ron. Very helpful.” Harry decided to wash his hair twice. Finders keepers, Ginny, he thought.

“Right, so you know it’s forbidden.” Ron said, scratching his beard thoroughly.

“No shit, Ron. Auror.” Harry snapped, eyes closed under the water. “Maybe start with how it works?”

“I have no fucking idea, mate.” Ron shrugged. “The Weasleys stopped passing it down generations ago.”

“Why on earth would they do that? Seems like a bloody useful skill.” Harry stood under the hot water, thinking. He wondered if his father had known how to use it.

“Yeah, I suppose.” Ron agreed before continuing. “Blood Magic is what all the wars were over. Basically. I do know that much.”

“ _What?!_ ” Harry yelled, whipping the shower curtain open. He was pretty sure he’d gotten all the shampoo off, and he very much needed to glare at Ron. Or in Ron’s general direction, he thought as his fingers fumbled around the sink for his glasses.

“So, I guess, only Purebloods can use it, and they’re super secretive about it, and only teach it to their own kids, and I didn’t honestly think there were wizards still using it.” Ron tried to tone down his defensive ramble. “Makes sense the Malfoys never gave it up, of everyone. Racist pricks.”

Ron threw Harry a towel, quietly envying Harry’s abs, but knowing damn well he wasn’t willing to go through the training Harry did.

Toweling off, Harry asked, “So why would your family give it up?”

Ron bit the inside of his lip in thought, embarrassed by his own lack of knowledge on something fairly pivotal in wizard society. “Solidarity? Basically. It was a serious case of the haves and have-nots, so most families who could use it quit teaching their kids.”

“Why not just share the wealth, then?” Harry suggested.

“I think you can’t have, like, any Muggle ancestors. And it’s complicated as shit. I remember Dad saying it was equivalent to learning a language, an instrument, and a dance, and performing all three in perfect synchrony.”

Harry recalled Malfoy looking exactly like he was doing all of that while piecing Ron back together. It seemed exhausting. But that didn’t explain why Ron was so angry about it.

“But why is it a _bad_ thing, Ron? Why is it illegal?”

Ron opened the door to let the steam out and tried to summarize. “It’s the original Dark Art. And it’s unTraceable. So like, if you can figure it out, you can get away with a lot of shady shit.”

“Ohh…” Harry said, finally understanding. That would be an Auror’s nightmare. And explained why Malfoy hadn’t wanted to use it in front of him. And why it was illegal. “Why did he call you ‘kin’, and why did you look like you wanted to kill him for it?”

Ron smoothed his beard down, the humidity having roughed it up. 

“Because he’s a dramatic ponce,” Ron spat, but continued with a sigh. “It creates some kind of temporary bond. I’m not really sure what it’ll amount to or how long it’ll last, but it’s Malfoy, so I don’t fucking want it.”

Harry strutted naked out and down to Ron’s room, Ron trailing behind.

“A bond? Like… a sexual thing?” Harry asked sheepisly, not looking back at Ron.

“No, I don’t think so. Like, I can tell he’s asleep downstairs, and dreaming about something he likes, but only if I think about him.” Ron’s face screwed up in disgust. “It’s gross. I’m not looking forward to knowing when he’s taking a shit or jerking off.”

Harry’s gut lurched at the idea of Ron being privy to Malfoy wanking, but he ignored it. He rummaged through Ron’s shirts, pulling out one he’d loaned Ron years ago. Ron tossed him a pair of jogging shorts.

“Might be fun if Hermione ends up fucking him.” Harry mumbled into the shirt as he slipped it on. He looked to Ron for a reaction, but he was staring intently at the wall.

“He’s awake. And shit terrified.” Ron chuckled. A high-pitched keening echoed up the stairs.

“Ronald Bilious Weasley!” roared Molly voice.

They grinned and slowly made their way downstairs.

———————————————

“Sit still, or I’ll whop you again.” Molly said, seething as she glared at Malfoy in the mirror.

He grudgingly listened. He had to admit, she was better with scissors and a comb than Narcissa. And she’d insisted on the haircut. Narcissa had only ever done it for appearances, and only until he was ten. 

Asking her to leave it a little longer had been enough to make her leave in a huff, and a house elf came in to finish. That may have been the last time she touched him for more than presentation or punishment, he thought.

Out of the corner of his eye, Malfoy noticed Potter raise something in his hand and heard a click. Edging his chin slightly, he saw Potter holding his mobile up. The sharp slap of a comb on the back of his neck brought him face center. Harry and Ron sat on stools at the table, pints in hand, swallowing their laughter.

“Potter. If you just did what I think you did, and you send it where I think you’re going to send it, I will end you.”

Ron focused on Malfoy and felt the lie in his threat. The man was practically euphoric having a comb running up his scalp. Euphoria and… grief? Ron tried to not dissect that.

“Don’t send it, Har,” he mumbled into his bottle.

“But she’d love it!” Harry argued.

Ron took a long swig. “Just don’t, mate. It’s just… not done. I don’t think ‘Mione knows about haircuts and mums and shit.”

“Language!” Molly leveled the comb at Ron.

“Oh, shit,” Harry whispered. “She probably doesn’t. I only learned about it from Ministry orientation.”

Molly muttered something tersely about host families and exchange students.

“Mum, did you ever talk to ‘Mione about not leaving Polyjuice potion ingredients in Muggle salons?” Ron asked.

“Polyjuice if you’re lucky.” Malfoy hummed drowsily. “ _Crinis Laqueus_ if you’re not.”

“No, dear, I never thought to mention it to Hermione,” Molly replied. “Draco, I’d say you’re done. Much better. Whoever’s been cutting your hair doesn’t know cowlicks.”

“Oh. Luna,” he slurred. Merlin, he’d never been so tired. Just staying upright in the chair was a challenge.

Molly flicked a Tergeo across his head and shoulders. “Go back to sleep. Soup and cake when you wake.”

Malfoy didn’t move, other than the nearly imperceptible forward tilt of his head. Ron focused on him, and felt his exhaustion steadily giving way to blackness.

“Going down!” Ron yelled, hopping off the stool. Molly snagged Malfoy’s collar and pulled him back, supporting his head.

“Boys, lay him down somewhere,” she instructed, turning to set out things for the soup.

Having deposited an unconscious Malfoy on the couch, they returned to their stools and mugs. A couple pints and a solid buzz hadn’t made the situation any less surreal.

Molly had done a better job explaining Blood Magic to Harry than Ron had, her grandfather being the last practitioner in the family. Malfoy had been noticeably silent during her meager explanation. Harry still had questions, but Molly had been reluctant to talk about it.

According to her, Ron could expect the bond to fade in a week or two, and he was grounded from anything she could ground an adult man from. Which, it turned out, was mainly pudding.

“Mum,” Ron asked softly. “Why the haircut? Why the soup and cake?”

“First off, he pulled an infirmary’s worth of Blood Magic into my son who effectively killed himself doing... what was it again?”

Harry and Ron looked at each other, and back at Molly. “Uhm… layering Confrindos on Bombardas,” Ron confessed. It hadn’t been the best idea, combining an exploding spell with an exploding charm, but it had worked great.

“Ah, yes, my brilliant son. And his equally fireproof accomplice.” She fixed Harry with a stern glare for good measure.

“Second, he needed a haircut. From a mother.” She paused, wand busy with vegetable chopping.

“He’s got a mum. She’s just a bitch.” Ron said, sneaking a handful of carrot slices from the cutting board. He waited for her to yell at him for his word choice.

Molly set a mixing bowl and cake ingredients floating toward the counter, thinking about Narcissa. They’d really been quite close until Narcissa’s second pregnancy. But she could hardly talk to the boys about that. She doubted even Draco knew.

“In most ways, you’re right. But she wasn’t always such an utter bitch-” Molly started.

“Language!” Ron hollered, mouth full of carrot. Molly rolled her eyes.

“There were several years where we were nearly friends. They’ve been here many times, you know. Bill and Percy remember. Used to sit right there.” She flicked a hand toward a chair by the fireplace. “She stopped coming after Draco was two or three.”

Harry had already learned more than he had the capacity for today, and this was just the icing on the mental overload cake. “Why would she do that? And why would you _want_ her to?”

Molly sighed, focusing on pouring the cake batter into two round pans. She would rather have have this talk with Ginny, though she didn’t necessarily think Ginny would understand. Fleur or Audrey may. They were mothers.

“I think, in a way, she wanted this,” she gestured vaguely around the cozy kitchen, “more than what she had. She wanted a large family, but Lucius and maybe nature were against it. And then he all but discarded her for years after Draco was born. Served her purpose, I suppose.”

“Bastard,” Ron mumbled. “That’s low.” Harry nodded, getting up for another bottle.

“I stopped inviting her over when you were toddlers. We were just… very different mothers.” She slid the pans in the oven perfunctorily. “But maybe I should have stayed in touch.”

The truth was, she thought to herself, that she’d stopped inviting Narcissa over after she’d seen her hex Draco for crying. The more he grew, and the more he resembled Lucius, the more Narcissa had resented him.

Molly pressed her apron to her cheeks and looked through the room to the young man curled up on her couch. Regret welled up in her throat, and she tamped it down. 

She could have done for him what she’d done for Harry. Given him a safe place. Shown him family. But instead, she’d watched for over twenty years as his life fell into shambles because of his parents.

And why hadn’t she? If she had to admit it? Really and truly admit it? 

She was as afraid of Lucius as Narcissa had been. She chose to cut Narcissa and Draco off for the sake of sparing herself and her family from his wrath. It felt cheap in retrospect. And in the end, Narcissa had eclipsed Lucius’s cruelty.

She dabbed the corners of her eyes with her apron hem, suppressing a sniffle.

“Boys, I’m going out to the garden a while. Turn the soup off after it boils, and take the cake out when it smells done,” she said, turning to leave.

“Yeah, sure, mum,” Ron said, concerned. They watched her leave.

Harry leaned over to Ron, polishing off his third pint. “When does a cake smell _done_?”

Ron shrugged. It had been a weird day.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Firecrotch

You spoiled mother fucker,  
no idea what you’ve got.  
Up to your fucking eyeballs  
in everything I’m not.

DLM 2007 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	7. Caution: Short Shorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut.  
> No, really, Harry. Use your whole cock.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Old Blood, Fresh Meat

It’s destiny, this fate of yours.  
Propensity to use this force.

Mothers killed, fathers distraught,  
Blood and bone, your future bought.

It’s destiny, this fate of yours.  
Mothers killed, fathers distraught.

Propensity to use this force.  
Blood and bone, your future wrought.

DLM 2005 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

An enormous slug had adhered itself to Hermione’s face. A slug that smelled like paper. And ink.

Half the page came away with her cheek, and she swore under her breath. Falling asleep in a textbook was a new low. But, she thought, if her syllabi and Ministry internship schedule were any indicator, she’d be taking naps anywhere she could.

There were only a few times a month where she needed to be in two places at once. Creative scheduling would be imperative.

A trickle of apprehension tightened her throat. This whole plan could backfire so easily. The Ministry internship was intended to be a full-time position… as was her law school coursework.

But the Ministry schedule was primarily evenings and weekends, the opposite of Cardiff Law. So, in theory, and in white-knuckled forced reality, it _would_ work. Or else.

It had been an impossible opportunity to pass up, so it would just have to work. The Ministry had finally realized they needed better integration of Muggleborns from a legal perspective.

And so, the need for a witch or wizard trained in Muggle law as a liaison between the two worlds had been on the docket for the last five years. It didn’t officially have her name on it, but there weren’t any other Muggleborn law students lining up to challenge her. 

She did wonder if it would be a position with any kind of authority or just a public relations stunt. It didn’t matter. She’d push it into useful operation. They certainly needed it.

The Ministry’s ineffective scramble to assist her with her parents had resulted in an official censure from the International Confederation of Wizards. Hogwarts had also received a censure from the ICW, which was unheard of. To her knowledge, both were based on the information she’d presented regarding her need to Obliviate her parents, and then the Ministry and Hogwarts’ absolute neglect afterward.

In the ICW’s opinion, the Ministry should have had tracking and protection in place for her parents for over a decade. There were just _so_ many reasons, large and small, that a liaison was needed. Even if this schedule might kill her. 

First the internship, then the Ministry, then the Wizengamot, then the ICW. “Supreme Mugwump Granger” had a certain ring to it. Okay, it didn’t, but she still fantasized about it.

Sliding a red and yellow knit bookmark emblazoned with her name in her page, she closed the book and stretched. Her mother had taken up knitting a few years ago, and awkwardly-curled, never-quite-flat bookmarks had been one of her first projects. They weren’t pretty. And they weren’t especially functional, but they were a bit of family she could take with her.

Her parents had never hinted that they had any intention of moving back, but she thought about it every day. Evenings like this one, dinner at her parents’ table sounded like a perfect refuge. 

Ron and Harry were lovely, but they weren’t family. Maybe they could have worked on becoming friends again first if she hadn’t sent Harry that stupid message. If _Crookshanks_ hadn’t sent it.

Then again, the promise of a repeat of the night before last was enough to make her consider forgoing all platonic friendships. That had been… something. And the two of them were undeniably attractive. Three of them, she mused. Malfoy stripping off in her kitchen had been an unexpected treat.

She wandered to the kitchen to check the time. Six o’clock. Six o’clock on a Friday evening, and she was preparing to… what? Heat up some soup and dig into a family law text?

Sad, Granger, she thought. Hmm… maybe Ron and Harry would be up for another go. This time without having to rush. Heat pricked her cheeks as she thought of what could have happened if Malfoy had returned to find her riding Harry with Ron’s cock down her throat.

What would he have done, standing there nearly naked? What would _she_ have done? Invited him into the pile, almost certainly.

Her mug refilled, she sat at the table to think. Everything she’d done today had been interrupted by visceral memories. She’d barely disguised a soft moan as a cough during a lecture. But Godric, they’d been amazing, with Harry below her and Ron in front, and their hands run-

Shaking her head to clear the image, she scolded herself. _First decent threesome, and you’re already a fiend._

It had been more than decent, though. Decadent. She shifted in her seat, the beginnings of arousal drawing her attention.

Harry had said he had every other weekend off, but now she couldn’t remember which ones he’d said they were. He might be off tonight. What did Harry Potter do on a typical Friday night? Hang out at the Burrow and play Exploding Snap to avoid the press?

Worth a try. And texting Harry was a hell of a lot faster than waiting in line for the Truro public Floo to contact Ron. And then what, have that conversation within earshot of everyone in the Weasley kitchen?

_Oh, hello, Molly. Sorry I haven’t been to visit, but I did fuck your son twice the other night. Quite lovely. Good catching up._

No. Harry won out on the basis of communication. Maybe Ron would consider a mobile. Malfoy certainly wouldn’t.

**Busy tonight?**

Crookshanks rounded the corner, like his assistance had been personally requested.

“Oh, you can just keep your furry nose out of it. You caused enough trouble last time. But thank you.” Her phone vibrated. Prompt. Promising.

_I’ve got a couple hours free._

Ugh, he was going to make her ask again. Like laying it all out last night hadn’t been embarrassing enough.

**Would you care to… get together?**

_Right.  
Yeah, for a couple hours.  
Gotta be somewhere at 8:30._

“Oh, thank Merlin,” she sighed.

_Floo into mine.  
I won’t have time to walk to the public from yours after._

Idly, she wondered why his schedule was so tight. Was he working night shifts?

**Perfect. Be there in 20. Thank you.**

_Thank me in 20.  
;)_

She huffed, amused. Cheeky.

————————————

Hermione Granger was five minutes late, and thus foul play could be assumed. Harry wished he’d have dried his hair better. Or at all.

He left his vigil at the fireplace to find his mobile, but it rumbled to life. A disheveled heap of brown curls and denim tumbled out onto his floor.

Coughing, she righted herself. “That is the _worst_ Floo I’ve ever used,” she grumbled, dusting her clothes off.

Harry suppressed a chuckle. She looked like she’d just slipped off a broom and barrel-rolled halfway across a field.

“I suppose you can just Apparate now that you’ve been here,” he said, taking her in. The anger added a glint to her eyes that he couldn’t help but find appealing. 

In school, Ron had waxed on about how cute he found her when she was reading a book. Harry mainly noticed her when she was furious. Usually at Ron. Which Ron found terrifying. Harry found it awkwardly arousing.

It had led to a lot of embarrassing erections under tables on Harry’s part. He’d often watched their fights escalate while hoping they’d end in sex. He’d chosen not to analyze his own desire to watch his teenage friends throw down and rage-fuck in front of him.

“Good point,” she agreed, bringing him back to the present. 

She eyed him as he refocused on her. Droplets of water eased down his muscled torso, drawing her gaze to the bulge in the thin, clingy fabric. He was clad in a pair of incredibly short, criminally orange jogging shorts. 

She wondered if the back of the shorts was printed with “Caution”. Maybe just a tasteful exclamation point down the middle of his ass. The package deserved a warning.

“I mean, text me before you pop in, but yeah. Way better than whatever Floo Cardiff apparently offers.”

“Sure. I’d hate to Apparate in and find you half-naked,” she said mockingly.

He grinned. ”You would have found me entirely naked if you’d have been on time.”

Shifting awkwardly, he stepped aside to get out of her way. Nervousness tightened his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he generally relied on his name to get women into bed. It was often enough to just exist in a pub, and he’d end up with his pants around his ankles in the loo in short order.

Hell, it’s what had gotten him a date tonight with a hot new Auror recruit. He’d liked that she was bold enough to ask him out for drinks. More accurately, she’d threatened to drink him under the table, which he found immensely more appealing than chatting and sipping lagers.

Hermione wasn’t gobsmacked by the famous Harry Potter, and it was a little unsettling. Maybe this hadn’t been a great idea. Was he supposed to kiss her? Hold her hand and tell her she was pretty?

She stepped closer, tentatively settling her hands on the waist of his shorts. Her thumbs traced the exposed skin low on his abdomen.

Relief and excitement coursed through him in a sigh and tightening of muscle. He should have known better than to think Hermione Granger wouldn’t take the lead.

She hummed quiet approval of the tension leaving him, and she turned her head to examine the room for the first time. It was the most boring living room she may have ever seen. It could have been a hotel suite, for all the personality it showed. White walls, beige carpet, Navy blue matching sofa and chairs, a tele that was neither too small nor too large. Everything precisely ordered and spotless.

But utterly nothing having to do with Harry.

“How long have you lived here?” she asked, still stroking small circles with her thumbs, noting a growing erection behind the thin fabric of the shorts.

“Uhm, four years. Why?”

“It’s boring as hell, Harry. I hope your bedroom is more interesting.” Her eyebrows rose in challenge.

“Well, prepare to be disappointed,” he announced. Her hands stopped moving and rested on his hips.

“I mean by the decorations! Not the bedroom…activities,” he gushed. “Shit.”

She hid a snort behind one hand, “I have more faith in your sexual prowess than your decorating abilities, Harry. But I might get you some throw pillows for your birthday.”

He smiled warily. “Not red and gold. Got kind of sick of those colors.”

“Fair enough.” She leaned in to run her lips over his collarbone, and his hands found her waist. “Show me your disappointing bedroom.”

—————————————————

He hadn’t lied, she thought. In a dramatic turn from the mostly white living room, the bedroom was a riot of… beige. 

The only splash of color was the utterly delectable sight of him reclined on the white bedspread, wearing nothing but those tiny orange shorts. The curve of his cock was visible through the tight material, and she was dying to touch him.

The black of his hair and soft green of his patient gaze were lovely focal points, too, but the recent memory of riding him kept her from noticing. It was a bit unrealistic to focus on a man’s irises when she’d been thinking about sliding him inside her all day.

Standing at the foot of the bed, she yanked her jacket off and threw it in a corner. Her fingers grasped the hem of her shirt, but a low hum of warning from him stopped her.

She looked up to find him frowning slightly.

“Slowly?” His voice rumbled thickly. “Please?”

She bit her lip, teasing. “Maybe if you do something more than lay there and look pretty,” she said, nodding to his groin.

Smirking, he ran a palm over the shorts to the base of the outline of his cock, breath hissing in.

With an approving nod, she resumed lifting her t-shirt, first baring her stomach, then clasping the fabric over her breasts. Turning at the waist, she showed him her back while she popped her head through, and hugged the shirt to her chest.

Lingerie under a t-shirt and jeans, he thought with a soft smile. He had to wonder how often she’d worn something like this under robes around him in school.

He chewed his lip, examining the multitude of criss-crossing black satin straps of her bra, waiting to see what her breasts looked like encased in something so delicate.

Slowly turning her shoulders back to face him, she cupped the t-shirt fabric over her breasts, kneading them.

A sigh shuddered from him as his thumb and forefinger found the outline of the head of his cock, squeezing it gently.

A moment of confusion caught him as a wicked smile played across her lips. He let out a startled yip as his face was suddenly covered in a cotton t-shirt. He heard her soft laugh as he pulled it off, only to find her with her back to him again, hiding her breasts and that bra yet again.

Harry grinned and threw the shirt in the corner with her jacket. He should have known that asking Hermione Granger to undress more slowly would result in a game like this. And he was more than a little thrilled she’d dressed for it.

Plenty of women had worn lingerie when they wooed him, but none had so effectively wielded it. But they’d worn it as a passive enticement. To play dress-up. To fit the role. Just a decoration.

Hermione owned it like a piece of herself. An instrument that only she could play, but if she were feeling generous, that maybe she would let him dance along to.

His shorts were getting uncomfortably tight, and he readjusted his cock upward, the head barely contained under the waistband.

A soft pop followed by unzipping made him wrap his hand around the outline of his erection, squeezing gently. No doubt the knickers that accompanied this bra would be worth the wait. Even if he was starting to worry how long he could physically wait.

Recalling his instructions from the other night to _very, very slowly bend over and take her panties off_ , she did precisely that with her jeans, earning a frustrated huff from Harry.

She arched to look back over her shoulder as he watched the denim creep down her backside, revealing the cross-hatched black straps that composed the waistband of her thong, dwindling down to a single strap concealed between her cheeks. Quickly, she turned her head back to face forward, hiding her satisfaction at his frustration.

Perhaps it would be rude, she thought, to make him stroke himself to completion before she was even undressed. But perhaps it would be worth the fun of it. He _had_ been rather bossy last night.

Inching the jeans down her legs till her back was flat, letting him watch. She kicked the trousers away, and widened her stance, leaning her ass back a touch.

Harry struggled to keep a whine from escaping his throat as she spread her thighs and bent lower. He had a very clear view of her sex pressed against the sheer fabric. His fingers ached to rub the knickers against her skin till they soaked through. Then he’d slip them under that single strap and-

She cleared her throat, and he jumped, her eyes pinning him. “Idle hands… tsk tsk.”

He dutifully palmed his erection, but tentatively. “Merlin, woman. You’re going to make me end things before we get started.”

She hummed with a shrug and murmured, “You’ll rebound.”

Gods, thought Harry, that wasn’t helpful. She arched her back and slowly stood, finally turning to face him. The bra he’d been waiting to glimpse was an elegant twist of black satin straps below and between her breasts, with fine black mesh composing the cups. 

A softly glowing ivory gemstone the size of his thumbnail composed the clasp. It reflected light in ribbons of white and gold, and he idly wondered if a bra could be enchanted. Probably. But this was all Hermione.

Her hands reached up to gather her mane of curls behind her, giving him a gratuitously long look at her hard nipples ensconced behind the thin fabric, the long curve of her waist, and the straps angling down to her cleft.

He hoped his gulp wasn’t audible as his hand snuck inside his shorts to finally fully grip his length. Heat built alarmingly fast inside him, and he loosened his hold.

She froze, back arched, and quirked an eyebrow at him.

He looked at her, confused. “What?”

She nodded toward his groin again. “You stop, I stop.”

“”Mione, if I even-“

“Maybe I _want_ you to come while you watch me.” She edged closer, leaning over to rest her hands on either side of his legs. 

“Maybe I _want_ to watch you spill yourself into your hand.” She inched forward, knees now on the bed.

Dropping to her elbows, her hair grazed his thighs, and an embarrassing whimper escaped him.

Dear gods above, the most powerful witch he’d ever met was stalking her way up his body, and all sense had fled him. Transfixed in intimidation and arousal, he froze, panting. He was so wonderfully and terribly close to losing control of the roiling tension in his hips.

She looked up, pinning him with her gaze again. “Maybe I want you to come so I can lick you clean before I beg you to fuck me hoarse.”

He shuddered, his fingers moved, and his body came undone in one sudden burst. Hot slickness erupted across his hand, and his hips thrust up in response. Groaning, he finally gave in, gripped his cock tightly, and milked the last few drops out.

“You might be a little evil, Granger,” he purred, relaxing against the pillows.

She grinned, rather pleased with herself, and started working small kisses up his thigh.

“A little,” she muttered, nuzzling into the fabric over the crease of his groin. “Maybe I’ll just leave you like this.”

Pressing her teeth around the base of his cock, she pulled back enough to whisper, “The magnificent Harry Potter and his sticky shorts.”

He wiggled, overstimulation setting in. And more than a little embarrassment at his rather sticky shorts, indeed.

Her mouth worked its way to the tip of his cock, he grimaced in pleasure and discomfort both. She gently sucked the fabric and palmed a wide swath over him, eliciting a soft gasp.

Resting just below his navel, his hand sat, having collected most of his semen. Her knees slid up to the outsides of his thighs, her elbows gently resting on his hips.

Taking his hand in hers, she cradled it gently, looking up to him, and lapped the inside of his palm.

“Fuck, ‘Mione,” he whispered. “You have no idea how you look.”

She hummed knowingly, and went to work licking between his fingers, turning his hand to catch every little rivulet and streak, until she was satisfied. Her mouth kissed its way back down to the patch between his navel and hip where a few droplets had landed. Deliberately catching his eye, she ran the flat of her tongue over them, and curled it back into her mouth. His breath came fast and he couldn’t look away.

One of her hands wandered down to cup him, the other supported her weight, she set her mouth on the head of his cock again. 

With a sigh, he realized he was getting hard again, and the discomfort had faded. His hips gave a subtle thrust, and she smiled, rubbing her cheek against his full length.

“I think,” she mused, rubbing her chin against his shorts, “that you may have to take these divine little pants off.”

“I may have to frame them,” he chuckled, hooking his thumbs in the waistband and lifting his hips to slide them down to his thighs. She took them the rest of the way, ending by stepping off the foot of the bed.

“Tit for tat, Granger,” Harry challenged. 

She frowned. “What?” he asked, confused by her reaction.

“Puns in bed? Really?” She shook her head.

“Oh! Accidental. Honest.”

“Accidents seem to be on the menu tonight,” she said, twirling his shorts. It was a little mean, but he was entirely too accustomed to calling the shots.

He shrugged, stretched, and demonstrably slid a hand down his abs to his cock, drawing her gaze down his body to his hardness. She bit her lip, distracted.

“Tell me how you want me to fuck you while you undress, Hermione.”

Her eyes widened as her fingers went to the jewel between her breasts. “Gods, Harry. I want you to fuck me till I can’t scream anymore.”

He gripped his cock harder, her directness making his breath catch. Women never actually told him what they wanted. They only ever told him to choose. Whatever the Chosen One wanted. And it was beyond boring. Not only did she know what she wanted, she told him how she wanted it.

“What position do you want me to fuck you in?” he asked, watching her _finally_ unclasp her bra and slide it down her shoulders to drop on the floor. Gorgeous dark pink nipples greeted him, and his fingers and mouth itched to touch them.

He expected her to slide her panties down, but she slid one hand inside them instead. She paused, thinking, sliding a finger between her folds. He swallowed an impatient growl. Her eyes closed and her mouth parted as she stroked her clit, losing her train of thought.

He cleared his throat. Refocusing on him, her hand slid up, and a wet finger slipped into her mouth, tasting her own arousal. Jealousy and possession ran through him.

“I think…” she drawled, “missionary first, then-“

“Take those off before I rip them off,” he growled, surprising himself. Merlin, she’d been right about coaxing an orgasm out of him before sex. He’d have been crawling the walls by now.

Indignantly, she turned back around, giving him another view of those straps weaving across the top of her ass and disappearing into her cleft.

“I was _saying_ … missionary first.” She slid her hands into the web of straps over her hips and started skimming them down her skin. “And then I’d like you to bend me over,” she continued, slender straps falling to reveal her already glistening sex, “and I’d like to you to somewhat mercilessly fuck me into the mattress.” 

Her hands skimmed up the insides of her thighs as she stood, coming to rest near her navel. Turning back to him, she whispered a wandless contraception charm.

Godric, he looked stunned, she mused. Stunned and rather stunning. His erection looked nearly painful, and his whole body hummed with tension.

“I…” he tried several times. “I can’t…”

Merlin, how was he supposed to explain to her he couldn’t do that? That he’d hurt his first few girlfriends with his lack of restraint?

“Shh,” she whispered, crawling back up his legs to sit straddling his thighs. The wet heat of her sex pressed just below his sac, and his hands gripped her ankles, preventing her from backing up.

Snaking her fingers between her folds, she wetted them, and slowly slid them down the tip of his cock. A guttural groan slipped through Harry’s gritted teeth.

“You think you’ll hurt me?” she guessed. 

He nodded, eyes closed, head lax but neck tense as she stroked him. 

“With this?” She squeezed his shaft _hard_. He groaned and nodded again. She needed to reassure him without starting an argument.

Leaning in to kiss his chin, she let go of his cock to grab the headboard behind his shoulders. His eyes opened as she rose up on her knees over his cock.

“”Mione, you’re not ready-” he started to object.

“Shh…” She kissed his chin again. “Let me decide what I can handle, maybe?”

His brow smoothed, and he nodded, skimming his hands up her thighs. She’d taken him like this easily enough last time, but her request for rougher sex still worried him.

Her cleft parted smoothly over the head of his cock, and those worries evaporated into the bliss of sliding into her heat in one luxuriously long stroke.

She froze, his entire shaft fully seated inside her, and he waited for her reaction. He expected her to move, but she just sat. Faintly, he could feel the muscles near her opening erratically squeezing him.

Fuck, she was too close to coming already. Not that a finite amount of orgasms was a remote concern, she thought.

She was adjusting to the feeling of fullness, and it was almost too good. The head of his cock hit precisely where she wanted deep pressure, and his shaft gave her just the right girth to stretch without pain. He felt immense and perfect, and the weight building in her hips was threatening to give way in an orgasm already.

“Are you-“ he started. She didn’t look like she was in pain. Far from it, in fact.

“Shh,” she repeated. “If either of us moves, I’m going to come. Hard.”

He gulped, her references to screaming and going hoarse making sudden sense. He cast a wandless Muffliato.

She smiled. “Good idea.” She let go of the headboard and rested her arms on his shoulders. “I want to come with you on top of me.”

He nodded and slid them down flat, taking a second to chuck the pillows on the floor. She moaned at the friction in changing positions, and resisted the urge to just sit up and ride him.

Carefully, he rolled them over, watching her face. Being on top made him nervous. He didn’t remember the last time he’d had a woman like this, but he knew it hadn’t ended well.

She wiggled her hips down into the mattress, and spread her knees up and wide. Her hands drifted out to his upper arms.

He groaned and pressed his weight between her legs, reveling in feeling his pelvis flush with hers. His entire length was buried inside her slick heat.

Tentatively, he curled his hips up, edging just a touch deeper. So impossibly deep. 

Heat bubbled over in her core and spilled out her mouth in a sharp cry. Her breath caught and her back arched as her fingers dug into his arms, a deep moan ripping from her throat. He ground against her in small circles, studying the rhythm in her contractions around his cock.

Their eyes met, and they both smiled. Him, nervously. Her, expectantly. She lifted her head to nip his ear and whisper, “Fuck me, Harry.”

Leaning down to kiss her, his hips found a slow, steady rhythm. Pleasure built in her, but this wouldn’t be enough. Breaking the kiss, she found his eyes again, and stroked his hair.

“Honest. I won’t break,” she said, reassuring him as she curled her hips up to meet him mid-thrust. He gasped at the sudden collision, wariness fading.

His cadence picked up, every stroke hitting nerves deep inside her, lighting fireworks behind her eyelids. Sweet pressure was building in her again, and her moans increased in pitch. He felt her tightening and knew she was close again already.

Hips keeping their persistent rhythm, he dropped to his elbows and slid his forearms under her back. His hands scooped under to grip the tops of her shoulders.

A moment of apprehension skittered through her at being so utterly confined by such strength. It felt crushing and claustrophobic and intimate. She’d wanted to feel him revel in his own power tonight, and maybe he’d take her up on it.

He used his grip on her to thrust harder, drawing out a surprised squeak that ended in a long moan. Her moan didn’t end, but turned into a punctuated series of whines, ending in a scream, as the tension in her snapped again.

Fingers grasping for purchase on his sweat-slicked back, she came again in a rush. Her legs wrapped around his hips, holding him inside while her core clenched him in waves of pleasure. Her breath shuddered, and her hands slid back down his arms.

Soft awe was written across his face as he gazed at her from mere inches away. “You’re not done. Are you, greedy witch?” he teased, and nuzzled into her neck.

Squirming at his tickling, she shook her head. “I did said I wanted you to bend me over and fuck me into the mattress, didn’t I?’

“Mm hm,” he hummed, working his way to her ear. “But you can’t-“

She nipped his ear. “I _can’t_ what?” She ground her hips up against his, starting him moving again. He sighed, and caught the slow holding pattern, grinding gently against her. “I can’t possibly take any more of Harry Potter’s magnificent cock?” she asked sarcastically.

He snorted a laugh into her shoulder, rising to look at her. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I can’t fathom the punishing brutality of Harry Potter _from behind_ , delicate witch that I am?”

“No, ‘Mione. I just… It’s not… I don’t know… Decent.”

“Decent?!” she guffawed, her sharp laugh startling him up onto his hands. She followed him, rising to her elbows. “You want to know what’s not decent? Sending me that picture.”

The glint in her eye made him shudder excitedly.

“Know what else isn’t decent?” she continued. “Screaming your name into a pillow several times a day since then, thinking about getting fucked by that cock.”

“Alright. Get your ass in the air, you indecent witch.”

—————————————————-

The tail of one orgasm blended into the beginning of the next, and she lost track of everything but the overwhelming waves of pleasure coursing through her core.

She’d given up on being able to hold her head and shoulders up, and settled for bracing her outstretched hands against the headboard for support. Every thrust built heat and tension, until she felt another climax building.

Gods, he was glory in his abandon. 

His fingers dug into her pelvis, almost painfully. His sudden removal of them startled her, until she felt him grasp the backs of her knees. Pulling her knees wider, he collapsed her hips to the bed, falling with her and catching himself on his hands above her.

Hot breath flowed over her shoulder as he leaned down, lips grazing her skin. 

Arching her lower back in offering, he growled low and pinned her chest to the mattress with his forearms. Her hands reached behind her head to touch him, and he caught her wrists, trapping them.

Breaths growing ragged, his thrusts became quick, snapping inside her, hitting deep. Pressure built around his cock as it grew impossibly hard. Trying to hold her climax back, a staccato whine escaped, muffled by the mattress.

His hips stuttered, vice-like grip on her wrists holding tight. He cried out and gave one final deep thrust.

“Fuck, Harry!” she screamed, as her orgasm flooded over in an electric wave, her back arching, core tightening around him. Pleasure ricocheted between them as they collapsed, hips still subtly moving in time.

He released her wrists and propped himself up on his elbows, stooping to kiss along her shoulder blade. His lips slid over the light sheen of sweat on her skin

Licking his lips, he rested his forehead against the cushion of her curls across the back of her neck. He sighed and focused on slowing his breathing.

A subtle shaking in her back alarmed him. Fuck, was she crying? Had he misread her groans and shouts? Was she hurt?

Gods below, had he fucked this up already?

“Are you-“ he started, terrified.

“Fifty points to Gryffindor!” she shouted into the mattress. Lifting her head to draw a deep breath, she dissolved into giggles, ending with an indelicate snort. “Am I what?”

“Fucking indecent, is what you are,” he chuckled.

——————————————————————————————

Waking with a start, but not sure she’d actually been asleep, she looked at the clock in his room. “Harry, didn’t you have to be somewhere an hour ago?”

“Oh, yeah,” he replied. He wandered from the adjacent bathroom toweling his hair dry. “Just drinks with a coworker.”

Three hours ago, he’d been downright excited about his date tonight. Now, nothing sounded less appealing. But he couldn’t cancel on her this late without creating workplace gossip.

The strangeness of having a woman laying in his bed hit him with full force. He’d never brought a date here. Never even considered letting women know where he lived, really. And now there was a rather shagged-out witch looking deliciously drowsy on his pillows.

There was a distinct possibility he was going to fall asleep in a pub when he’d rather climb into bed now with Hermione. But it was too late to bow out. His date was probably still waiting for him. Shit.

“I’m going to Apparate out. You’re sure you’re okay?” He was still somewhat incredulous.

Rolling her eyes, she slid out of bed to get dressed. “I said I’m fine. My entire day tomorrow will consist of hot, steamy textbook passages. I’ll even stay in bed, if it makes you feel better.”

“It might.” He scratched his chin, wondering if he should shave, but decided his date could tolerate some stubble. Amanda? Andrea? Something like that.

Hermione yawned, buttoning her jeans. “I’m going to Floo back to Cardiff. I don’t entirely trust myself to Apparate that far tonight.” Maybe the public Floo wouldn’t be so bad on the return trip, she hoped. Unlikely, though.

Harry threw a t-shirt on and grabbed his glasses off the dresser. Absently, she thought he looked much more like himself in them. Another fit of giggles threatened as she imagined him going undercover by simply removing them. It worked for Superman. 

“Right. Heading out. Text me if you need anything tomorrow. Ron and Malfoy will probably be out of commission still.” He patted his pockets, checking he had everything he needed.

“Wait, what?” She huffed, startled.

He froze, not knowing how to reply. The memory of Malfoy’s threat of putting him in an early grave surfaced.

“Uhm… long story short. Ron and I kind of blew up… Ron? And I sent Malfoy a Patronus? And then he healed Ron?”

“ _WHAT?!_ ”

“Yeah, right. Uhm, so neither of them are really in any shape to… you know,” he gestured vaguely to the rumpled bed. Biting his lip in thought, Harry figured he should probably stop by the Burrow in the morning to help Ron get Malfoy home. Wherever home was for Malfoy.

“ _HARRY!_ ” she fumed.

“Sorry, ‘Mione. Sworn to secrecy and stuff. You can ask them. I gotta go. Godric, I’m so late,” he muttered, followed by a loud pop of Apparition.

“Well, shit,” she scoffed, and headed for the loo.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

_ Toujours Piège _

Blood for binding, blood curse winding.  
_Toujours Pur_ ,  
My quiet creeping furor.

Blood for “Oh, You Nevermind”-ing.  
_Toujours Pur_ ,  
Condition there’s no cure for.

Blood, insidious masterminding.  
_Toujours Pur_ ,  
Oh, the tortures you’ll endure.

_Toujours Pur._

DLM 1998 Wiltshire  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	8. Round-and-Roundabout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy's history with men makes Harry feel... things.  
> Narcissa's history of sabotaging her son's life makes Ron feel... rage.  
> Hermione gets interesting post.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Anything but That

Feed me desire, I’ll return fire,  
No, anything but that

Give me hate, and furor great,  
No, anything but that.

Spite and malice, lick the chalice,  
No, anything but that.

But call me “love”, gods above,  
No, anything but that.

Circe, hold fast, I may not last,  
No, anything but that.

DLM 1999 Durmstrang Institute  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

“ _Aberto_. Damn you,” Hermione hissed, having given up on the key to her postbox. It worked yesterday. If this made her late for orientation, so help her, Merlin, but there would be revenge.

“ _Alohomora_. Come on!” She slammed it with her palm for good measure. Nothing.

“Fine. You asked for it. _Portaberto_!” she snapped, flicking her wand at the postbox.

The keyhole shot sparks, and a thin stream of smoke rolled out, but the door remained shut.

As she watched, the ribbon of smoke turned into a steady stream, and the “#6” was starting to peel off the metal door.

“Shit shit shit shit…” she muttered, and slipped her key neatly into the box marked “#7”. Rescuing her own post from the tiny pyre next-door, she locked her box and turned to leave.

Furtively glancing around, she whispered a soft _Aguamenti_ to the smoldering box, and escaped out of the building as it hissed and steamed, scraps of charred paper flowing out onto the lobby floor.

The bus stop was empty, and she settled in on a bench to look through the post she’d stuffed into her rucksack.

Junk. Junk. Bills, which she was somehow supposed to forward to the Ministry. Enchanted fax machine?

And a small envelope with her name and address, but no return address. An early birthday card, maybe?

Her bus pulled up, and she clambered on. It smelled like week-old fish and chips.

Plopping down in a seat, she winced. A surge of arousal shot through her, pooling low and tightening her core. Last night with Harry may have been a bit of an overindulgence, but the soreness today was worth it. Merlin, the man had turned out to be a glorious fuck. 

And these jeans had a seam in just the right spot. Her bottom wiggled against the seat.

Shaking her head and swallowing thickly, she reexamined the envelope. No traces of magic. The elegant, flowing penmanship tugged at her memory. She’d idly watched this particular script take form so many times. 

It was like a half-remembered tune to a childhood song. She could practically see the hand holding the pen. No, not a pen. A quill. _Malfoy_.

Why would he mail her something? And so soon? He would have had to send it the morning after what she was calling “The Curry, Couch, and Cunnilingus Cavalcade”. Such a weird night. Good weird. But weird.

Maybe he was sending her a formal notice to bugger off. An insult about her bloodline, her appearance, her general existence, and well wishes for her ambiguous future, probably. That seemed very Malfoy. A beautiful, biting rejection in the post. 

With a sigh, she slid a key under the fold of the paper, making a ragged incision across the top. There looked to be a single piece of ivory paper inside. The edges were thin, the pulp having been spread by hand. Unfortunately, there was no sliding it out of the envelope without destroying it.

Taking up her key again, she sawed two more edges of the envelope, opening it like a door. Trust Malfoy to send Muggle post so complicated it couldn’t be opened normally.

Her annoyance dissolved as she took in the riotous whorls of flowers and vines adorning the border of the page. Holding it up to her nose, she could just make out individual dots of black India ink that built the pointillist design. 

Medea’s mons, it must have taken hours to tap out.

The leaves and petals were delicately shaded to give the illusion of moonlight projecting from the upper right corner. The foliage mounded through the center of the border like a raised berm.

The bus pulled up to her stop, tearing her away from her examination. Leaving the paper in its sheath of envelope, she slid it in her planner and set out toward her intended campus building. 

“Orientation” was one of her least favorite words, but especially in an academic setting. Four hours of slowly being told information she could read in twenty minutes was little more than torture. And especially when these jeans felt so _good_ in just the right spot.

The conference room was easily found, and she settled into an empty chair, noting the distinct sensation of her knickers adhering to her damp pussy. Was it all her own wetness, or still some of Harry’s? A flutter danced through her core at the thought. Distracting.

It was a boring room full of boring round tables at which sat boring-looking people. Most seemed to already know each other. Others looked hell-bent on not getting to know anyone, which was fine by her.

This group was small enough that she wouldn’t be able to get away with reading a book. Setting out her planner, the morning’s itinerary, and several highlighters, she waited. And fidgeted.

The corner of the envelope stuck out of her planner, and she realized she hadn’t read any of the writing on the paper. He hadn’t just sent her doodles. Okay, not doodles. Absolute fucking art.

The script inside the border looked like it had been written by an entirely different person. Gone were the flourishes and curves. This was heavy, boxy, all capitals, with a strict back-slant.

She compared the envelope and the paper. It was like comparing calligraphy and block print. That’s what it was. Calligraphy. She traced the paper’s writing with her own pen, and the slant felt horribly awkward.

“He’s fucking left-handed,” she whispered to no one. Merlin’s manboobs, he’d written all his coursework in right-handed fucking calligraphy, when he was actually left-handed. And had he learned to use a wand in his non-dominant hand, too? 

She chalked that one up to his parents. They certainly wouldn’t have allowed this writing out to come out of Malfoy Manor.

The longer she compared them, the more she preferred his natural penmanship. It was more legible, by far. And it felt weightier, with the thick letters and heavy strokes. The elegance on the envelope felt like a lie compared to the starkness of the invitation.

_GRANGER,  
YOU ARE INFORMALLY INVITED  
TO DINNER AT MY HOME._

_SATURDAY EVENING, ANY TIME.  
DIRECTIONS ON REVERSE.  
TAP THE WARDS FOR ENTRY._

_BRING AN OVERNIGHT BAG.  
OR DON’T.  
DO BRING THAT BOOK.  
NOT THAT CAT._

_DLM_

The reverse side had GPS coordinates, which was unexpected and impressively useful. She had to wonder how he knew those existed, and how he’d gotten them.

Bringing up the location on her phone, she grimaced. That section of coastline was very remote. There weren’t even real roads near it.

She was going to have to Apparition jump hill to hill for a good 15 miles, assuming she could Floo or Portkey into Truro.

Ugh. It would take hours for her stomach to settle after that. Dinner had better be light.

——————————————

Every thud in the road forced him to surface to consciousness, and it was getting annoying. He hadn’t trusted Weasley and his contraption of a Muggle car to get him home, and he’d been even more reluctant after Weasley said it ran on fucking cooking oil. Death by fricassee. 

But the back seat was comfortable enough to fall asleep on, even if the ride was rough.

—————————————

_The same four eaglets…children? Had returned. The auburn-haired one walked next to him up the path to his house. The other three bounced around, still ephemeral._

_A tiny hand wrapped itself around his pinkie, and his throat tightened. He still couldn’t speak to them, but desperately wanted to. Percolating was a gut instinct that if he could name them, he could speak to them._

—————————————

Thud.

“… so Ginny said come visit any time, but then she’s always got something going on and I don’t…”

_The auburn-haired child pulled him forward, eager to go home. Their home?_

—————————————  
Thud.

“…but this Adams wanker is honestly going to botch a…”

_The boy, it was a boy, looked up and pointed to the eagles circling the wards and beamed._

—————————————  
Thud.

“…bet she has. No girl would do what…”

_The boy gestured to himself, patting his hand on his little chest._

—————————————  
Thud.

“…directions say to take the next left, not this left. Turn signal! Dammit, Ron, I’m not going to wake him because you…”

_The boy tugged his hand for attention, scowling._

—————————————  
Thud.

“…have no idea if it’ll even hold up to snow, let alone Fiendfyre, and I can’t…”

_Eyes wide in desperation to be understood, the boy pointed to the eagles and patted his chest again._

—————————————  
Thud.

“…bet against the Bats. They just signed Falk on as head coach, and he doesn’t-“

The name snapped Malfoy fully awake. The dream didn’t return.

Sitting up suddenly, he gripped the seat in front of him, letting a wave of nausea and vertigo pass.

“Falk?” he croaked.

“Oi! What’s the story, morning glory?” Harry sing-songed, turning to greet Malfoy.

“You said Falk. Magnus Falk?” Malfoy tried to smooth his hair and tone, and pointedly gave up on both.

Harry grumbled something about nightingales and Muggles to himself.

Ron perked up. “Yeah, signed on this year as the new head coach for the Bats. Heard of him?”

Malfoy huffed to himself. Stealthy humor. Peasant tastes. Utterly devastating in bed.

Yeah, he knew Falk.

Lucius had remarked that together, they looked like a Rottweiler and a Greyhound up to no good. He had to admit it was an apt comparison. Falk’s brown hair, black eyes, bulk and immense height had made Malfoy look downright dainty sometimes. But an agile, sharp-toothed kind of dainty, he liked to think.

“Yeah, I know him. I didn’t think he’d want to coach a major team, is all.”

VIP tickets danced in Harry’s imagination, until he remembered he was Harry Fucking Potter, and could probably go in and sit in a VIP booth stark naked and no one would kick him out.

“Is he any good?” Ron asked, eying Malfoy in the rearview mirror.

“As a coach? Yeah. Intuitive.”

“How do you know him?” Ron asked.

Malfoy sighed. He’d been dreading this topic since their dinner at Hermione’s.

“Durmstrang hid us for a couple years after the war,” he said carefully. “He was a new assistant coach there.”

Harry and Ron each turned their attention to the landscape, not sure which part of the statement they wanted to ask more about. Or more importantly, which part Malfoy was likely to divulge anything about.

Harry wished he’d spent more time _not_ snooping Narcissa and Lucius’s files. Had Malfoy seriously been fucking around playing Quidditch at Durmstrang while the Ministry was ripping Western Europe apart trying to find them?

Ron beat him to the punch, tact absent, per usual.

“You were just lounging about playing Quidditch while we were cleaning up the UK, huh?”

Even Harry winced. Malfoy sighed and relaxed into the seat, already defeated and too exhausted to argue.

Ron noticed Malfoy flop back against the seat, and guilt nagged him. The bloke had just saved his life, and still looked like shit because of it. Focusing on their fading bond, he reached out and felt Malfoy’s annoyance, but not hurt. Relieved, Ron turned his eyes back to the road.

“No, I didn’t play any Quidditch at Durmstrang. Actually, I guess I haven’t played at all since Hogwarts.”

Ron’s knuckles loosened on the steering wheel. “Then how do you know Falk?”

“I… we lived together at Durmstrang.” His palms were sweating, and he rubbed them on his trousers. This was not a conversation he wanted to have in a moving vehicle.

Harry watched Malfoy. His previous pallor was giving way to a nervous flush. The man looked like he was in front of a jury, not in the backseat of a jalopy.

Ron made a disgusted face. “Durmstrang couldn’t spring for separate housing for a Quidditch coach?”

Malfoy felt nauseous again. He really wished Ron weren’t driving. Really wished a lot of things.

Harry tried to interject gently, but was waved off. He’d seen pictures of Falk in the Daily Prophet. The man was a dark Adonis. There was a mention in the article that he was doing a nude spread for Witch Weekly, despite the numerous accounts of him dating male Quidditch players from rival teams. Harry wasn’t sure how, or entirely _why_ he was going to accidentally run across a copy of that edition, but it was going to happen.

“The campus and town are kind of integrated. And he had a cottage at the edge of campus.” He watched as the light went on above Harry’s head, and continued watching as that luminescence melted Potter’s composure.

“Right shit of them to stick fugitives with a coach,” Ron declared.

“Weasley.” Malfoy enunciated, much more calmly than he felt, “Magnus and I were lovers. For nearly two years. Living in a cottage. At Durmstrang.”

Harry suppressed an inarticulate squawk, fully aware that his cheeks were absolutely scarlet, and there was nothing he could do about it. Malfoy’s admission made him nervous and jealous and excited and just utterly confused.

“Uhm, right turn coming up, Weasley,” Malfoy reminded.

Ron concentrated very hard on the road in front of him. “Oh. So then you’re biased as bollocks, or maybe _by_ bollocks, on his coaching ability.” 

Malfoy huffed a laugh.

Ron skidded around the curve, mind anywhere but on the road. Straightening the car out, he nodded to Malfoy in the mirror.

Harry’s voice came out in a panicked rush. “You fucked Magnus Falk!”

“Harry!” Ron snapped, whipping his head to glare at his best friend. “Don’t be an arse! Two years isn’t just fucking, you wanker.”

Malfoy hummed his agreement. He hadn’t really expected acceptance from Weasley, let alone humor and solidarity. 

Potter currently looked like he’d swallowed a pufferfish backwards. Best to ignore him till he got his shit together. Potter was likely to lash out, and Merlin knew Weasley wouldn’t rein him in a second time. Never did.

Considering his options on the topic, Malfoy decided potentially outing Magnus as a bit of a cheater when it came to Quidditch might be fair play. His misjudgment _had_ caused a Ministry raid at Durmstrang, after all. Even if he’d done it with romantic intentions.

Malfoy leaned his elbows on his knees, queasiness fading. “Do either of you or your families or friends or loved ones or fucking chimney sweeps have a stake in professional Quidditch in any way?”

Both men’s ears perked up at the promise of juicy gossip. “Ginny retired last year, so none for me.”

“None for me, either, that I can think of,” Harry squeaked out, very, very proud of himself for using words.

“Alright,” Malfoy said, scratching his chin. “So, Falk is the most powerful Legilimens on the fucking continent. Born with it. But the daft bastard is only motivated by sport, sex, and food, so nobody knows about it but his players.”

Harry bit his lip. “And you.”

“And me,” Malfoy acknowledged, also proud of Harry for using words. “Heals his players up mid-game with Blood Magic, too.” Malfoy had to look away. Harry’s gaze had gotten too intense. 

“He can read the other team’s players through the game, and signals his team to intercept moves before they happen, or share Snitch sightings. He can project images if he’s close enough, too.”

“Rubbish,” Ron exclaimed. “That’s cheating. Bloody brilliant cheating.”

“Apparently brilliant enough that he made a career of it. I wasn’t sure what happened to him. I figured he’d have been banned from the sport by now. He can be careless, but he taught me more than Severus ever did.” Malfoy smiled warmly, remembering lessons with Magnus that always ended naked, sweaty, and very satisfied.

It must have shown on his face, because Ron saw the need to clarify. “Hold on. Two Legilimens.”

Malfoy nodded.

“And you both grew up in Blood Magic families.”

He nodded again, chewing his lip.

Ron’s eyes were enormous, “By Godric. Ginny found a dirty book about that in Grandmum’s things, but I never…”

Malfoy chuckled, amused. The high and mighty Weasleys. “Crones and their smut. By Penny Royal?”

Nodding, Ron wondered why Malfoy knew the author straight away.

“Those were banned by the Ministry fifty years ago. Dangerous propaganda,” he chided. “I have the whole series.” He waggled his eyebrows at Ron in the mirror.

“Propaganda?” Harry asked. Was he supposed to be censoring reading materials as an Auror? He’d missed that memo, if so. “How can dirty stories be propaganda?”

“Very graphic Blood Magic smut. It does a lot more than heal wounds from fuck-knuckled demolitions attempts, you know. Easy to convince teenagers to take up the practice for the sake of fantastic sex. And to marry a fellow Pureblood who’s also practiced.”

“Ohh…” Harry drawled, pieces clicking into place. “That’s sneaky.”

“Yeah. Oh. Weasley, if anybody asks you if you read Penny Royal, just say ‘no’. You’ll end up in over your head in short order if you admit to having read it.”

“Uh… Okay.” Ron wasn’t sure what that implied, but the humor coming through the bond from Malfoy was unexpected.

Malfoy saw Ron watching him in the mirror, and felt he should probably justify his grin. “The day I met Magnus, he took one look at my hand and accused me of being a Penny Royal slut.”

Joy beamed through their bond, and Ron was taken aback by it. He’d certainly never dated anyone he remembered that fondly. Or dated anyone he remembered. Or dated anyone. Or dated, come to think of it.

Harry had watched Malfoy’s face light up talking about his former lover, and it didn’t sound to him like they’d parted ways intentionally.

“So, why did you guys…” Harry trailed off. The pufferfish was back in his throat. Sideways, this time.

“Break up?” Malfoy guessed. 

Both men nodded, trying to be nonchalant about their interest in his love life, but damned if it wasn’t fascinating.

“Long story or short?”

“Long,” Harry said, as Ron chose, “Short.”

Malfoy rubbed his hands up the sides of his nose, sorting through the details of the whole ordeal. This was the longest he’d been awake since yesterday, and it was already draining.

“Short story, his parents ratted us out to the Ministry.”

“And the long story?” asked Harry, gaze intense again.

“Long story, he sent a Thestral Swain Offering to Nar-“

“Aww, romantic,” Ron interrupted dreamily. Malfoy paused, smiling. Weasley was a bit of a softie, apparently. Harry looked at Ron like he’d just admitted to _eating_ a Thestral.

Ron gushed, “We still have a painting of my great grand-dad and mum with theirs, Lucy. Lost a good bit of her hand, but she got her man.”

“Anyway, he sent them in February. All proper,” Malfoy continued, vowing to give Granger an antique courting book, “and Narcissa slit the Thestrals' throats and-“

“She did what!?” Ron yelled, outraged. “He sent a wild Swain Thestral _pair_ and she _killed_ them?!” He took a deep breath, twisting his hands on the steering wheel. “She should be in Azkaban.”

Harry swallowed a laugh. “She is, Ron.” 

Harry had no idea what the Thestral thing was about, but vaguely recalled kids at Hogwarts jeering _”Oh, just give him a Thestral already!”_ with the same affectation as _”Get a room!”_ He’d assumed “Thestral”, in this instance meant “good hard buggering”.

“Oh, right. But I mean for that. Godric, that’s… that’s legendary courtship!” Ron ranted. 

Too embarrassed to admit his own ignorance, Harry aimed for a serious face, figuring it was better than scowling or interrupting. Administrative update meeting face.

Malfoy hummed agreement. “When she saw it was a pair of _male_ Swain Thestrals, yes. Decapitated them in front of me and had the heads sent to his parents. Included a note suggesting their son go plow uphill elsewhere.”

Ron’s breakfast touched his tonsils. He’d known Narcissa was no less evil than Lucius, but Merlin Almighty, that was heinous. 

Swain Thestral gifts were extravagant betrothal announcements a century ago, and nearly unheard of now. If anyone were to appreciate such a formal, decadent, traditional gift, he’d have thought it would be Narcissa Malfoy. 

They were the ultimate “Till death do us part” of betrothals. Gods, he could only ever dream of a proposal like that. He’d squeal like only a grown ginger man can squeal.

“Bit heavy a gauntlet to throw, “ Ron said cautiously. Swain Thestrals were meant to be a legacy gift. Sending two males when he could have sent a breeding pair was a thinly veiled _Fuck You_.

“Yeah. He thought she’d retaliate against him, not against me. His mistake.” Malfoy huffed and settled back against the seat, “She summoned her entire Potential Daughters-in-Law List like the nightmare bitch queen she is.”

Ron grimaced, catching his eye in the rearview mirror again. “Your parents were making you court women while you were nearly married?”

“That’s… a very genteel way of putting it, Weasley,” Malfoy said softly, chewing his lower lip. 

Narcissa’s response had been devastatingly perfect in its precision. Falk thought he could take the Heir to the Malfoy Misfortune, make an honest man of him, and fly off into the sunset? Oh, no, no, sweet Swedish child. Watch your man dance.

Bitterly, he added, “She hosted a one-man Bacchanalia that March.”

Awkward silence filled the car. Knowing Harry was barely following, he groped for something to help clarify without belittling Potter. 

Draco hadn’t bothered tapping the bond with Weasley, but he could feel absolute furor seeping through it, and it made his palms sweat. Redheads and their tempers.

“Lovely invitations. Something about scattering her family’s seeds to the wind herself, seeing how her son refused to plant them properly. Pansy put hers in a scrapbook.” His attempt at levity fell flat.

A long, low scream from Ron made them both flinch. “ _What the fuck is wrong with your family, Malfoy?!_ ” he raged. “ _What the ever-loving fuck?!_ ”

Harry was more alarmed by the veins in Ron’s forehead than the yelling itself.

Startled, Draco realized his casual depiction of events was maybe inappropriate. But he’d rehashed it in Azkaban so many times, that it just didn’t faze him anymore. Most of what was left was the loss and the sheer fucking absurdity of it all. If nothing else, it had driven home to him how utterly unhinged his parents truly were.

Gulping, and not sure the pufferfish was gone, Harry cautiously asked, “Do I want to know what a Bacchanalia is, Ron?”

Jaw clenched, Ron shook his head. “I’ll tell you when you’re older, Harry.”

Harry nodded emphatically.

“After the war,” Malfoy said, interceding, “several of the more powerful Pureblood families decided they’d rather have their daughters knocked up with a Pureblood heir than compete to marry one. Durmstrang was happy to host. Future enrollment secured.”

Exhaling deeply, Ron added, “Bacchanalias were historically last-ditch efforts at reviving the wizarding population in a given area. Bit of old tradition. Most family trees root back to ancestors conceived in one. They were festivals. Not punishments.”

He looked up to find Harry’s mouth agape.

“Uh… Does the Ministry know?” Harry asked. Offhandedly, Harry wondered if it was no coincidence that Slytherin had hosted several sex parties and also boasted the highest concentration of Purebloods.

“Every sordid detail. But whether or not it’s actually a crime is up for debate.” Malfoy dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair. “Strong-arming a family member with blackmail and threats of exposure to law enforcement is perfectly acceptable by Ministry standards.”

Harry had to stop himself from reaching back to stroke the ruffled white-blond strands. That must have been one of the “Statute Pending” entries in his parents’ files. Gods, how humiliating would it be to have that kind of information sitting in Robards’ office?

Malfoy caught the pity in Harry’s look. “It’s not like they hexed me down to a table, Potter. More of a To-Do List of tedious, but acceptable shags for a few weeks. Till the Ministry showed up to torch Durmstrang to the fucking ground.”

Mind reeling, Harry carefully considered the dozens of questions he wanted to ask. Malfoy’s eyelids were drooping, and his earlier flush was gone.

“So, you have kids. Like, a bunch of them,” Harry asked warily.

Somehow, telling Weasley and Potter was worse than reliving it all in the Pensieve with Robards. At least Robards had plied him with chocolate.

“No, no kids.” He raised his face, but rested his chin in his palm, fatigue evident. “Mag knew enough Blood Magic that we, ah… got drunk, and uhm, made sure there would be no mini-Malfoys.” 

Sweet Salazar, this was the most embarrassed he’d been in years. Exhaustion sucked at the edges of his vision, and he slid down to lay across the back seat.

Harry’s brain was catching up slowly. “So you can’t… have a family?”

Malfoy yawned, settled his head on his folded arms, and mumbled, “I really don’t think the world needs more Malfoys.”

Closing his eyes, they mercifully let the conversation die.

————————————

“How can an owlery be _out_ of _owls_?!” she found herself ranting. She was going to get a reputation in Cardiff if she kept showing up only to yell at this man.

“I… I’m sorry, Ms. Granger,” he stammered, unnecessarily sliding his glasses up his nose. “Someone released them all a few days ago.”

 _Stole some owls_ , he’d said. She bit back a wry grin.

“Alright, fine. I’ll find another way to send these to the Ministry,” she flicked the letters in her hand for emphasis. “And I’m sorry for snapping at you. Again.”

—————————————

“Pull over next to that boulder,” Malfoy instructed.

The car eased to a stop, a sandy dust plume behind it. Harry hopped out of the car, walked to the edge of the road, and froze. Malfoy watched, grinning, wondering how hard Potter would smack right up against the wards. Not as hard as he’d expected. Pity.

“What the _fuck_ kind of wards are these, Malfoy?!” Harry hollered. 

Harry was just grateful to be back in his element. Pureblood courtship was literally a foreign concept, but wards? Wards, he could do.

Ron had to help open the back door of the car for Malfoy to slide out. Both because the car was half rust, and because none of them entirely trusted Malfoy on his feet yet.

“You can’t guess, Auror Potter?” he said with a tired half-smirk.

Harry reached both palms out, brow knit in concentration. It was unlike anything he’d encountered at work. A brittle glass-like dome, but with a sticky, clingy layer. It reminded him of a caramel-dipped shortbread.

“There’s a standard disillusionment, but another similar one that I can’t get a hold of.”

“It’s a wizard disillusionment charm. Hides the wards from wizards and Muggles both. You have to expect to find the wards to find the wards.”

“Camouflage on camouflage,” Ron added, grabbing baskets and bags out of the boot. His mum would kill him if he forgot to drop Malfoy off with all the food she’d sent.

“Bullshit,” Harry retorted. “There’s no such thing.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“I think you’re starting to realize how bereft an education Hogwarts and the Ministry left you,” Malfoy drawled, easing out of the seat to lean against the car.

“Stand in the middle of the road, shut your eyes, spin around, and try to feel for the wards with your magic,” Malfoy said in challenge.

“Pin the tail on the wards?” Harry asked. Ron and Malfoy shrugged, not getting the reference.

Malfoy winced as Harry’s magic prickled across his skin. His signature had always felt like static shocks and ground glass when they’d dueled, but now it was like a live wire dragging ragged shards across him. He swallowed thickly, wondering why Potter’s magic felt less refined now than as a teenager.

Harry stopped spinning, coming to rest standing stock still, both hands out. “I can’t fucking feel them. Why can’t I feel them?!”

Harry flailed around and walked a circle in the road. Malfoy pushed off and walked across the road. There was a chance he’d smash into them yet.

Malfoy chuckled. Stumping Aurors was good fun. “Blood wards. Six layers. And a seventh Ministry ward inside.”

Harry gave up and joined a shaky Malfoy at the side of the road, expecting him to pull out a wand to let them in. Instead, Malfoy walked through, and turned. “Put a palm against the outside ward.”

Sea water and blood filled Ron’s nose, and he tried to snort it out, but found only air. Glancing over, he saw Harry doing the same thing. A biscuit out of the baskets got rid of the taste and smell.

“Hell of a welcome mat, that,” Ron mumbled around a second biscuit.

Malfoy shrugged. “Undiluted blood wards are even worse. The sea water dilution was a lucky discovery.”

Ron surveyed the now-visible trail leading up to a rock outcropping. “How far do the wards extend?”

“Half-mile radius.” Malfoy had taken off his shoes to walk the sandy path. If he left his guests and flew, he could be asleep in bed by the time they got to the entrance. But, manners. “Oh, and you won’t be able to use magic till you’re back outside.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “That’s not standard for parolees. No wand, sure. But no household magic? What the fuck?”

“Standard parolees aren’t Death Eaters. Confidentially, I believe the Wizengamot did not, and does not, intend for me to survive parole,” he surmised. “I found myself out of Azkaban and wandless, Traced, homeless, and very, very unpopular.” He gestured to the eagles circling the perimeter, who were in the midst of taking down an owl. It thunked off the wards with a red and yellow smear.

For the second time that morning, Harry was aghast at Malfoy’s propensity for getting royally fucked over by wizards who were supposed to be guarding him.

“The Ministry just dumped you here and said have at it?” Ron asked.

Malfoy barked a laugh. “I wish! I had to buy the land to have something to ward. It turned out I didn’t personally own anything. And the family fortune is still being liquidated for reparations. So almost everything I did own, I used to buy this.” He held his hands out to showcase the dead field of rocks.

“Robards chipped in some demolitions charms as a housewarming, but I don’t think I was meant to survive using those, either. Might want to see if you can wean Weasley onto those.”

Harry nodded, and Ron was about to ask why the Ministry would send blasting caps, but they reached the rough entrance, and it suddenly made sense.

Ron hesitated. “Please tell me we’re not going into an abandoned mine shaft.”

Harry shrugged. 

Malfoy went ahead, hollering back, “It’s not abandoned if you live in it, Weasley!”

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Fallow Fields

“Don’t waste our time,  
O son of mine.  
In tilling fallow fields.”

Don’t sweat and toil,  
In dying soil.  
No matter what you see.

But I see gold,  
And truth be told.  
Much happier I’d be.

For diamonds turn,  
When lusts let burn.  
In tilling fallow fields.

DLM 2000 Durmstrang Institute  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	9. Muffins in Mineshafts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut.  
> Muffins count as dinner if you eat enough of them.  
> Hermione and Malfoy have the first of many serious discussions.  
> Hermione opts for anal.  
> Malfoy obliges. Like a gentleman.  
> Hermione's conflicted about spending the night with a man, but... muffins.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Counterfeit Family

Strike a pose!  
No! Not like _that_.

Got your nose!  
No, not like that.

Quiet repose.  
No... not like that.

DLM 2001 Durmstrang Institute  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

Vomit splattered in the dusty soil at the edge of the dirt road, and she spat, trying to clear the taste.

“Ugh, fuck,” she groaned. “Never again.”

Two Portkeys and eight Apparitions was way too much, and the prospect of having to eat dinner afterward just made the nausea worse. Probably some kind of elaborate French shit, knowing Malfoy.

Checking the coordinates on the invitation against the map in her phone. The little paper was littered with pinholes now, thanks to an amorous Crookshanks.

One more hop. Just one more. Then, she could walk down the rest of the way. Walking sounded divine. The sun was setting, so one more visible hill would be all she could do, anyway.

Shifting her bag on her shoulder, she focused, swallowed hard, and Apparated with a pop.

——————————————

_The eaglet dream started, and he was eager to see them. He wondered if he should stop thinking of them as “eaglets” anymore. They were very much human now, but it felt like a term of endearment._

_Tonight’s setting was his bed, which felt… right. The auburn-haired boy was examining one of the walls of the room. He was intent on one particular section. Draco frowned, confused. There was nothing but thirty feet or more of solid granite behind that wall._

_The other three downy-haired forms chased each other around and over the bed. One of them drifted away from the game to stand by the boy._

_His little face screwed up in concentration and he put a hand against the wall. His scowl was contagious as he turned to look at Draco, whose brow knitted in sympathetic frustration._

_The second form touched the wall and turned, newly green eyes scrutinizing him under black brows. Her hair dropped into perfect black ringlets to her chin, and she huffed, turning back to the wall. The two appeared to be speaking to each other._

_Eager to hear their voices, he leapt off the bed._

_His feet hit the floor and the dream snapped, the pull in his chest replaced by a knock on the wards._

—————————————

“Tap on the wards,” the invitation said. She’d guessed where the wards were based on the little map he’d drawn. They seemed to take up the entire area on the north side of the dirt road.

But how did one “tap” on a ward?

She’d tried hitting it, throwing magic at it, knocking on it, yelling at it, poking it with her wand, but nothing worked.

Suddenly, a tendril of the ward's magic snaked out, spooled, and formed a sort of indentation. She touched it with her hand and nudged a tiny bit of her own magic into it. It accepted the little push, absorbing it. A moment later, the pressure of the wards eased and she stepped forward.

Sea water and blood flooded her nostrils and she gagged, retching onto the ground yet again. Raising her hand to wipe her nose, she found nothing. No water, no blood. An illusion? A disgusting one, if so.

The sun was setting to her left, casting a soft glow over the path in front of her. She snorted and blew her nose again, walking forward.

What a strange welcome mat.

——————————————

The wards brought him a signature that was new. It was soft. Incredibly soft. And smooth. And familiar. And important. Something he’d lovingly run across his lips hundreds of times. Something… cherished.

Vellum. His eyes darted to some of the older books on his bookshelves. The signature felt like a vellum cover from one of the centuries-old pieces he’d taken out of the Manor archives. 

“Shit,” he whispered. It was Granger. He’d forgotten about sending the invitation. He flung ward permissions through to her.

Scrambling out of bed, he paused to run a hand over the spot in the wall the children in his dream had touched. Nothing special jumped to his attention, so he shrugged and hustled into the kitchen.

Dinner was what his invitation had said, but he’d slept for a day and a half instead of preparing anything. Rounding the corner, he sighed, seeing the baskets Weasley had brought in. At least there was food.

Molly’s treats and a pot of tea would have to suffice. And Granger was just going to get an eyeful of him in a t-shirt, pajama pants, and bedhead. He was kind of looking forward to throwing her off-kilter with this departure from host expectations. She probably thought she’d be eating off porcelain in a grande dining room. This would be fun.

His parents would roll over in their graves… if they’d had the decency drop dead. Hosting someone unprepared. A truly epic Thing Malfoys Do Not Do. 

The burst of adrenaline from having woken was fading already, and the sofa called him back. While the kettle heated, he propped the door open. Granger could just show herself in. That ought to set the bar low.

Throwing some hibiscus flowers into the hot water, he grabbed a few of the older books from a culture section of one of the bookshelves, and lay down. She was certainly taking her sweet time walking in from the wards.

————————————

A dirt footpath and a hole in a granite wall weren’t what she’d expected. Though, the eagles circling overhead and the foreboding entrance were reminiscent of the Manor’s peacocks and the dungeon-like Slytherin common room. Subdued recreations of both, she thought.

The door was propped open, but she gave it a passing rap to announce herself as she stepped inside. No one met her. 

She hadn’t expected fanfare, but a house elf wouldn’t have surprised her. The fading light hid most of the outlines of the walls, but it didn’t seem like a very big space.

Rounding the kitchen, bare feet dangling over the arm of an antique red velvet sofa greeted her. She set her bag down on a kitchen chair and peeked over the edge. He was really pulling out all the stops having her over.

Harry had very vaguely warned her to expect Malfoy and Ron to be out of commission today, and it looked like he was correct.

“Malfoy?” she whispered. His eyes were closed behind reading glasses. Several small books rested on his chest, one had his thumb in it.

He looked… cozy. If one of the most dangerous people she knew could look cozy. His hair was mussed. Soft gray and black plaid pajama pants left everything to the imagination, but his thin black t-shirt cut a nice portrait. The tufted red velvet against his platinum hair was rather lovely.

If she were bold, there was just enough room for her knees on either side of his hips. No, too bold, she decided. It would feel amazing, though, she mused, to press her still-tender sex against him, feeling his body respond as he woke.

Smiling, she realized this was exactly how he’d found her in the park just a few days ago. Unexpectedly asleep with a book in hand. Had he watched her sleep and weighed touching her? What would she have done if he had? Probably come right there under the willow tree, she thought. 

She wished he’d have been that bold. Merlin, she regretted slapping him. If she’d have been forthright with her invitation, and they’d skipped straight to sex, they never would have had a blow-up in the park. 

Waking her up with a hand down her knickers would have been beyond brazen, though.

He’d woken her up with ice cream, instead. Maybe there was something in the pile of goodies on the table worth waking him up with. Or maybe she should just try to Apparate home and leave him a note.

A steaming kettle of tea caught her attention. He’d only been asleep a few minutes, then. She poured two cups, startled when bright red tea splashed against the mugs. Weasley tea.

The spread on the table must be from Molly, then. Harry had said Malfoy had healed some kind of injury for Ron. Molly definitely wouldn’t let that go unpaid. And the woman’s currency was food.

A basket of muffins caught her eye. She hadn’t had one of Molly’s carrot cake muffins in nearly a decade, and her mouth watered. Leaning over the basket, she took a deep sniff and sighed.

“Goldilocks would have fared differently if she’d have stolen muffins,” a low voice drawled from the sofa.

She jumped, but took two muffins. “Molly’s muffins are worth risking death.”

Carefully balancing a muffin on each mug, she approached the sofa. He was awake, but not by much. His normally pale skin was ashen, and didn’t look like his eyes really wanted to stay open.

“You could have rescheduled, Malfoy,” she suggested. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit, so thanks,” he muttered. “And I would have rescheduled if I’d have remembered.” He slid up to half-sitting against the arm of the sofa and accepted the muffin and mug, eyeing the tea suspiciously.

“So, Harry said they blew Ron up and you healed him?” she asked, wincing at the tartness of the tea, but chasing it with a bite of muffin. She had to admit it was a good combination.

Warily, he sipped the tea, rolling it around in his mouth. With an appreciative hum, he swallowed and took a larger gulp. It was tart and floral and strangely reminiscent of a dry red wine his father favored.

“I did,” he stated. He took bite of the muffin, not inviting question. 

The muffin was a thing of culinary exception, he thought as he fought a pleased groan. This exhaustion was worth ingratiating himself to the Weasley clan if it meant a supply of these masterpieces of spice and carrot.

Her muffin was already gone, and she licked her fingers clean. “Care to elaborate on how you did that without a wand?”

“No,” he said, draining the mug. “Whatever Potter told you is on him.”

Gathering his strength, he swung his feet to the floor and sat up. The room spun, but steadied more quickly than it had that morning. Maybe tomorrow would find him fully amongst the living. 

“Why you, though? Why didn’t he just take Ron to St. Mungo’s?” she asked, not at all planning to accept his silence.

He shrugged and hoisted himself to his feet, only swaying slightly. “He said he panicked, but honestly, it was probably gut instinct. Mungo’s couldn’t have gotten him in a bed fast enough to save him.”

He hadn’t wanted to alarm them more than necessary, but Weasley had been a goner. 

The shard of rock didn’t just clip an artery. It had shattered the top of Weasley’s femur, cut through muscle, and severed every major blood vessel in the upper thigh and hip. But for the skin holding it on, the leg had already been amputated. And messily.

After his initial anger at Potter for sending the Patronus, he had to admit that he himself couldn’t think of a better option, either. Apparating Ron from the scene, if Potter had been capable, would have killed him. 

“So you can do things St. Mungo’s can’t. Without a wand. In a field,” she accused, more than asked.

Shrugging again, he turned and walked to the kettle on the kitchen table. He was going to have to find out where the Weasleys got this tea.

“Granger, I’m just… Not doing this. Not tonight,” he mumbled, refilling his mug. 

There were two more baskets of food on the table. One held neatly-wrapped sandwiches, and the other appeared to be full of biscuits. How the Weasleys weren’t all perfectly spherical was beyond him. He plucked a chocolate biscuit and sandwich out and sat at the table.

Hermione huffed, her interrogation having been firmly shot down. It looked like maybe they were going to end up having dinner together after all. She settled in at the table at the corner next to him and helped herself to a sandwich.

The sun had nearly disappeared below the horizon, casting long shadows across the kitchen. Malfoy dragged a silver platter from the far edge of the table closer to them. The large plate held several pillar candles in various stages of use. He deftly struck a match and lit a tapered candle, then used it to light a dozen other wicks.

“I could have cast a Lumos,” she offered, unwrapping a sandwich.

He took a bite, gagged quietly, and discretely spat it into the paper. Fucking egg salad. Fucking _warm_ egg salad.

“Cast away,” he muttered, scraping crumbs off the roof of his mouth with his tongue and spitting them into the paper.

She set her sandwich down and flicked her wand. And flicked. And flicked. Like a terrier after a rat, she was.

Rinsing his mouth out with the tea, he wondered how long she would do this. She just kept going, and his grin was going to break through.

“It’s the Ministry ward, Granger.” She flicked her wand one more time and he shook his head. Stubborn witch.

Huffing, she turned to him for more of an explanation, but noticed his sandwich. “Not an egg salad fan?”

“No,” he admitted with a shake of his head. “You spend enough time in feathers, you lose your taste for eggs.” 

He shuddered and pushed the sandwich away. “I’m not a total monster.” 

Now that he’d eaten something, though, he realized how hungry he was. Three more muffins ought to fix that, he thought, riffling through the basket.

“You know the muffins have egg in them, right?” she poked.

Mouth full, he replied, “Not a saint, either.”

“So, you don’t have a wand. The Ministry ward voids all magic, how do you… live?” she asked, bordering on what looked to him like actual concern.

“Carefully?” he offered, inhaling half a muffin. “I have a little savings to draw off of for essentials. The Ministry sends an allotment of snap-open cooking charms a month, which I mainly use for tea.”

That reminded him, if this coming Monday was the third of the month, Eira would hand him a bag of them. Which meant he could splurge on making coffee tonight. Which meant _maybe_ he could pull his head out of the fog and interact like an actual human being.

She certainly didn’t come all the way here for tepid egg salad and muffins.

“What is today, Granger?”

“Uhm… day 13. Or 14? My phone’s in my bag,” she said sheepishly.

That didn’t sound right. It was definitely closer to the end of the month. Oh.

He chuckled, tight-lipped, mouth full of his last muffin. “No, I mean the actual date. But good to know.”

“Oh! The 20th.” She wondered what the date had to do with anything, but decided against asking, lest she blurt out more personal information than was requested.

“Excellent,” he said, wandering to the counter to start the coffee. “And you’re on day 13. And I’m not sharing the coffee, so don’t ask. I think we’d both agree it’s better for you if I just drink the entire press.”

Gulping loudly, she nodded.

——————————————

“Bavarian rules next round, or I am _done_!”

“Uncle Ron, you promised!” a shrill little voice whined.

Harry grinned, relishing Ron’s burnt shirt sleeves. “You did promise, ‘Uncle Ron’. Not much of an Exploding Snap teacher if you up and change the rules now.”

“Fine! But Vic, if you and Dominique gang up on me again, I’m telling," Ron grumbled, shuffling the deck.

“He won’t tell Grandmere, cuz he’s not supposed to let us play,” Victoire whispered to her sister.

Sorting his hand as Ron dealt, Harry muttered, “She’s right, Ron. You’re just going to have to burn that shirt entirely.”

Heavy feet clomped down the stairs in a one-two step. “Lou’s down! Pints!” shouted Bill.

Pitiful wailing oozed down the staircase, and his head fell. “Merlin, not again,” he sighed as he turned to trudge back up the stairs.

A loud pop sounded in the kitchen, and Percy and Audrey’s girls scampered into the den to greet their cousins.

Harry scrambled to kick the cards under the couch and cast a quick _Reparo_ at the scorched spots on Ron’s shirt before Audrey came round the corner.

“Thanks,” Ron said with a nod. “That was close.”

Harry winked and leaned back against the couch and watched the sibling reunion unfold. 

Godric, how he loved the Burrow. Someone was always home, always doing something, family always coming and going. There was always someone to talk to, something to eat, somewhere comfortable to relax. It was the exact opposite of the Dursley’s. And his flat.

Ugh, his flat. Hermione had been right in her assessment. It did look like he’d just moved in, because really, he’d never moved in. He slept there, ate there, showered there, and that was about it. It was never _home_.

Other than Hermione, he hadn't even had sex there. Women were generally very accommodating when he suggested going to their houses. Having potential stalkers know where he lived seemed like a security risk. And what if they didn’t _leave_?

He’d been a little anxious when he’d Flooed home from… Amy? …Ann? …What’s-her-name’s flat last night that Hermione would still be in his bed. Part of him found it exciting that she might have stayed, but the rest of him was terrified she’d ask where he’d just come from. 

Having just had disappointing sex with a coworker probably wouldn’t go over well. Or maybe Hermione wouldn’t care. But maybe that would actually sting more.

“Mum, what’s burning?” Percy asked, tone pinched. Pans clanged around the kitchen as he checked the stove.

Audrey eyed Ron and Harry suspiciously. Harry avoided direct eye contact and pretended to find his left hand immensely interesting. Had he always owned cuticles?

“Mum’s not here,” Ron hollered to Percy. “She and Fleur went food shopping! But there’s stew in there somewhere!”

“Found it! Girls, are you hungry?!” Percy yelled, to no effect. The four girls had disappeared in a fit of giggles, whispering something about a magical drawing of dragon poop.

Footfalls clomped down the stairs again, and a frustrated Bill swung into the room holding a pouting wiggling mess of a two year-old Louis. “I swear to Godric, you lot are getting hexed if I have to-“ Bill started.

“Bill!” Percy shouted, holding a bowl of cold stew and several bottles of Guinness. 

“Baby!” Audrey shouted, holding out her hands. Bill passed the baby off with a relieved sigh and best wishes, and accepted a Guinness from Percy.

Ron had been considering offering to try to put Lou to sleep. Somehow, he felt like he would just be inherently good at that. He had a very calming presence, he thought as he picked at the soot on his shirt. But Audrey had not only beat him to it, but was infinitely more experienced.

Bill and Percy flopped onto the couch. Percy handed bottles to Ron and Harry. 

Clinking and drinking, they caught up on the summer’s events. Bill’s oldest would be going to Hogwarts next week, so Molly had offered to host all five of their kids until the big day. Neither brother was one to turn down a week of free babysitting, and Ron was looking forward to the ridiculous amount of baking his mum was sure to do with the girls.

Harry gingerly sipped from his bottle. Last night’s hangover was a doozy. “Percy, how’s Level Six treating you?”

Percy perked up at the mention of work. “Bloody brilliant. You are looking at the Assistant Director of the Floo Network Authority. Next stop, well, anywhere. Anywhere with a fireplace. How’s Auror life?”

“No complaints,” Harry lied. He actually had many varied and colorful complaints. “I can’t officially say, but there might be some changes in senior administration next year.”

“You don’t say,” Percy said, brows raised. “Robards taking early retirement?”

“Something like that,” Harry muttered into his beer.

“Cheers, mate,” Percy saluted, raising his bottle.

Audrey’s voice thundered down the stairs. _“Who’s bloody eagle is attacking the house?”_

The men looked at each other, confused. Ron’s gaze snapped to Harry. _Malfoy?_ Ron mouthed. Harry frowned, shaking his head. Why would Malfoy show up and peck at windows in his Animagus form? 

Odd coincidence, though.

At Ron’s nod, they both stood and hustled up to the bedroom Molly had turned into a nursery. Audrey was clutching a wide-awake toddler Lou, who was trying to get his chubby fingers on the eagle’s face.

Harry inspected the eagle and noted it was the same type as Malfoy, but smaller. And it carried a message. It chortled and bobbed when it saw him, holding out its foot.

Harry reached down to untie the note. The eagle nipped between his fingers and _cackled_. Scowling, he shooed the bird away.

The note had a Ministry seal with his name on it.

_Potter,_

_Apologies for disturbing your evening. Stop by my office as soon as possible in the morning. I’m transferring a case to you, and Witch Weekly has requested a short-notice interview. We need to get ahead with some good public relations. I swear, it’ll be the last one._

_Awaiting your arrival,_

_Robards_

“Oh, fuck me sideways,” Harry hissed.

“Language!” Audrey shouted, pretending to cover Lou’s ears.

Lou’s big eyes darted between Audrey and Harry before gleefully announcing, “Oh! Buck ee!”

Harry stood, gobsmacked, while Ron aspirated half the Guinness in his mouth, requiring a solid clap on the back.

Ron wheezed, “We all agree to not tell Fleur.”

“Agreed.” Harry and Audrey said solidly.

———————————————

“Granger! Meet me in the Restricted Section! Bring your knickers!” He was posing seductively, or what he thought was seductively, against his bookshelves.

“Gods be damned, Malfoy! What the fuck is wrong wi-“ she sputtered as her panties landed on her face. “Stop digging through my bag!”

He’d been bouncing off the walls for twenty minutes, and as hilarious as it was, she was starting to wonder if caffeine had some kind of intoxicating effect on Purebloods. Maybe that was the logic behind the acrid red tea the Weasleys drank.

“Granger!”

“ _What?_ ” She’d given up on trying to read the textbook she’d brought. It sat in her lap and judged her for taking time off to watch the flushed pajama-clad man bounce around the room.

“Nothing. Hi. I like your bum.” He landed lightly on the sofa on all fours over her legs. “I think I had too much coffee. And I might die.”

Worry prickled up her neck. Maybe her concern about the caffeine was warranted.

“Die of _boredom_!” he whisper-shouted.

“If you don’t…” he clipped, leaning forward, “take off your trousers,” 

He leaned in to press his forehead against hers. He was sweating lightly, and she was more worried than aroused.

Slowly, she reached fingers up to the pulse in his neck, and he flinched, surprised.

“Twitchy little ferret, aren’t you, Malfoy?” she joked.

His face fell, remembering what he’d called her before she’d said those words to him the first time. Regretting her jibe, she lifted her hand up to his cheek. He was so close, but now less eager.

“I’m sorry, I forgot-“ she started, but he cut her off.

“Did you know you were my bogeyman? Bogeywoman?” he asked softly, turning his head to run his lips down the scar on her forearm.

“Your what?”

“You were the first Muggleborn I’d ever met. I grew up with stories about how you could steal our magic and turn us into Squibs. I heard more scary stories about Muggleborns than I did vampires,” he rambled, his cheek pressed to her forearm. “And then. One day. There was one on the train, and she was kind of cute, and _that_ was a problem.

“And, do you know what the cute Muggleborn from the train _did_ , Granger?” he asked, grinning.

She shook her head and slid her textbook to the floor. His lips had started working their way from her scar to the inside of her elbow, and she was having trouble focusing on his hyper rambling.

“It was worse than the stories,” he said morbidly, running his cheek over her upper arm. His lips settled in the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “She. Kicked. My. Asssss.”

Hermione snorted a laugh, and he chuckled, his shoulders against hers. He leaned back to look at her and plopped his butt in her lap. Her hands rubbed up the soft flannel of his pants to rest on his hips.

He laughed softly next to her ear. “She kicked my ass in the classroom. She kicked my ass in the halls. She kicked my ass everywhere I went. If she’d played Quidditch, she’d have kicked my ass at that, too.”

Merlin, she was going to give him whole pots of coffee on a regular basis if it resulted in downright adorable confessions. 

“And _then_ do you know what the terrifying, ass-kicking Muggleborn did?”

She bit her lip to stifle a laugh and to ignore how good his weight felt on her. Her hands were dangerously close to exploring his body.

He gripped the arm of the sofa on either side of her head and leaned in for emphasis.

“She got rather fit, you see,” he whispered, and paused. He licked his lips and studied her reaction. “In fact, every time she came back from break, she looked more and more delectable. And she just kept _doing_ it. It was torture, I tell you.”

His hips had tilted forward, almost rubbing him against her mound. Her breath caught. The humor in his eyes had turned to heat.

“One summer, she came back with these lovely breasts, and then she _hid_ them from me. And another summer, she grew luscious hips, and she put _robes_ over them,” he murmured.

“She sounds awful,” Hermione joked weakly. “I knew a pretentious Pureblood boy who did something rather similar.” Her hands ran up and down the outsides of his thighs slowly.

“Ugh,” he scoffed. “He sounds like a real wanker. A gorgeous, statuesque wanker.”

“Do you want to know what he did that was worse than hiding in robes?” she asked lightly.

His hands caught her wrists and guided her hands to his hips, pressing them in place.

“I think I’m afraid to ask what a pretentious Pureblood wanker is capable of,” he said reluctantly.

“It’s quite devastating, nearly a decade later,” she chided, biting her lip. “He got _interesting_.”

His breath shuddered in, and escaped in a relieved sigh. A weak smile ghosted across his lips, and he brought them down to meet hers, hesitantly.

She met him halfway, her hands leaving his hips to comb through his hair. Surprised, he moaned against her mouth as she held him tight. Their lips moved, cautiously. A slow prelude.

Pulling back, he gave her a peck on the nose. “Bed?”

She tried to tamp down a ferocious grin, failed, and nodded.

———————————————

His fingers grazed down, past her hips, and _gods below_ how he still loved those hips, coming to rest over her cleft. 

She sucked in a breath as he slid a finger between her folds. He froze, noticing her sudden tension.

“What’s wrong, Granger?” he mumbled into her neck.

A brief wave of panic swept him as he mentally rehashed the evening. She had plenty of reasons to not trust him, but no new ones he could think of. But one date did not trust incur. If this had even been a date.

“Uhm, just kind of sore,” she admitted.

“Oh?” he inquired, rather interested. “Why would that be?”

She hesitated. “I… was with Harry last night.”

He shook his head in mock disapproval. “Tsk tsk. Show me where the big bad Auror hurt you.”

She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and relaxed her thighs. His mouth hovered over her collarbone while his fingers gently stroked her inner thighs.

Gods, how he wanted her to want him. But moving too quickly would ruin it all. Of course Potter would cause complications, even for this. The man was a sentient wrench that hurtled itself unwittingly about.

Slowly, he shifted to trail kisses down between her breasts. His lips ghosted across her navel and his shoulders settled between her thighs.

His fingers drifted away as his lips replaced them, and they inched up toward her groin. Eager whimpers fell from her lips as her hips twitched in an urge to move faster.

Cautiously, he spread her open and licked a wide swath up her cleft. She moaned and ground her hips again. Her core felt hot and swollen against his tongue, and he was somewhat concerned. Luckily, Potter seemed to have neglected her clit, he thought wryly. 

“I think I can kiss it all better, but you’ll have to lay very, very still,” he said sternly. “And not come at all. No matter what.” He punctuated his prescription with a quick flick of his tongue up her clit.

She squeaked and muttered her agreement. Torn between urging him to continue and cautioning him to stop, she decided to simply trust him. Likely the riskiest possible decision.

A sharp nip on one side of her slit made her gasp. She needed less pressure, and up, and center, and her hips moved to try to shift him, but he was undeterred. He let go suddenly and left her wanting. His teeth found purchase on the other side and made her squirm. 

A low growl vibrated through his teeth, and she clutched the sheets, daring not to move. Gently, he released her flesh, the flat of his tongue running over where his teeth had been.

A long exhale left her, and her hips relaxed back to the bed. Soft lips trailed kisses where sharp teeth had bitten, and her thighs spread wide, urging him to explore more deeply.

Tentatively, his fingers spread her open again, gathering her slickness on one digit. He peeked up over her mound to watch her as his tongue teased circles around her clit.

Merlin, she was glorious to behold. Her hips swiveled in time with his mouth. Her hands each cupped a supple breast, one gently pinching a nipple. Breathy, needy gasps murmured from her parted lips. She was so close, and being so terribly patient.

His fingers drifted downward, and his mouth replaced them, latching lips around her clit. Her whole body jerked, and he suppressed a grin. Scrabbling hands left her breasts to clutch sheets next to her hips. 

Idly, he wondered what would happen if he just kept her here. Just enough suction for her sensitive little bud to send her body screaming, but not enough friction let her come.

What would Hermione Granger do when denied an orgasm she obviously and desperately needed?

It could end up a competition between them, given how painfully hard he was, and how much his hips wanted to grind against the mattress while he kept her on the edge of coming.

His fingertips trailed back down to her core, testing the swollen flesh. In response, her hips stuttered and stilled, her body tensing. He slicked his tongue up her clit, and she moaned, but she still didn’t thrust her hips down against his waiting fingers.

Breaking suction, he raised up to look at her. “Granger?”

She hummed a non-response.

He slid back up the bed to lay alongside her, the width of his palm cupping and kneading her, thinking. Nudging her onto her side, facing away from him, he traded his palm for slick fingers circling her clit.

His hard length pressed against her backside, his arm around her waist and hand between her legs pinning her to him.

His lips and teeth crept across her shoulder to her neck, letting his mouth come to rest against her ear.

“Granger,” he said firmly against her neck, demanding her attention. Slowly, her eyes opened, and she focused on him.

“I think,” he whispered darkly, “a certain greedy witch wants more than her poor little cunt can handle.”

She froze, momentarily taken aback by his words, before swallowing loudly. Slowly, she licked her lips, dissecting his tone. He had offered it as a suggestion, not a judgement.

He was treading carefully, she thought, and he was right. She did need more than her pussy could handle tonight.

“Am I wrong?” he whispered, sliding his fingers from her clit back down to the hot, swollen lips of her core.

She squirmed uncomfortably, but nodded.

“What should I do with such a selfish slut?” he mused with admiration.

Her mind reeled at being called a _slut_ , but her body reveled in it. Maybe, for tonight, being a slut was exactly what she wanted.

“I… I…” she stammered, dreading asking him for what she needed. Her focus had narrowed to simply coming, ideally with him inside her. Anything but this slow torture.

“You… what?” he teased, gathering her wetness on his fingers and sliding them lower.

The tips of his fingers slid past her core to the delicate skin near her ass. Her hips bucked up to meet him, and he hid a grin against her shoulder.

“I want…. I…” she stammered again, no less coherently. His fingers were driving her mad.

He grazed the outside of her arse and waited, keeping gentle contact. She sighed, and he felt the puckered muscle relax against his fingertips. His eyebrows rose in soft surprise.

Just a little bit of penetration was all she would need to finally come, but he refused to give it to her. 

“What do you want, Granger?” he whispered against her neck. “I want to hear you _beg_ me for it.”

Her nostrils flared with indignation, but his thumb pressed her clit while his fingers swirled around her anus. An almost-suppressed whine escaped through her clenched teeth.

She took a steadying breath and tried again. “Fuck me…” she murmured, trailing off.

“Not good enough,” he huffed. “Fuck you _where_?”

She growled in frustration, throwing her arm over her face.

“Fuck my ass,” she spat out, mortified. Her cheeks felt like they could combust out of sheer embarrassment. His fingers kept circling, and his thumb kept pressing, and all she could focus on was getting him inside her and letting her climax around him.

“Manners. Fuck your ass... What?” he murmured, hiding his grin against her shoulder, watching her.

She huffed angrily, and fired back, “Fuck my ass, _please,_?”

He pressed the tips of his slick fingers against her hole, and she moaned and thrust herself down on them. His fingers slid past the tight ring of muscle and she sighed.

“Was that so difficult, greedy witch?” he asked as he nudged her onto her side.

His hand withdrew and disappeared above the stone ledge at the head of the bed, returning with a scoop of something slick and clear on his fingertips.

His thumb spread the cool gel around her clit, while his fingertips returned to her ass. He spread it carefully around, wiping it up his fingers in the process.

He briefly debated whether or not to ask her if she’d done this before, but decided it ultimately didn’t matter. He was going to fuck Hermione Granger's arse precisely as much as she wanted him to.

“I’m going to fuck you with my fingers till you come,” he whispered into her hair as he positioned himself on his side behind her. “And if you come like a good little whore, I will let you have my cock, too.”

She wanted to tell him to fuck off, and go to hell, and call him a vile Death Eater son of a bitch… but _gods_ , she wanted him to make her come with his cock inside her.

And… being a good little whore sounded rather rewarding.

She groaned and thrust her hips back against his waiting fingers, driving them in deeper. It wasn’t enough. Hot threads of pleasure gathered, but she needed him to _move_ inside her.

His bottom arm slid up to rest under his head as his hand grabbed a hold of her hair. A deep moan tore from her and her back arched. Her body used the leverage to drive her hips harder against him.

He bit his lip and tried to edge his hard cock away from the friction of her movements. If she kept making sounds like that, he’d be the first one coming.

Her hand snaked down between her thighs, and he smiled expectantly. He’d been wondering when she’d realize her clit was unattended. This wouldn’t take long.

The tendrils of sweet tension in her hips gathered as her fingers found their way between her slick folds. Her muscles squeezed his fingers, and he tightened his grip on her hair in response. She groaned and ground her hips back against his fingers one last time. A guttural moan echoed. through the room, and she came in crashing waves. 

“Gods, Draco,” she panted as the pressure in her hips broke. His breath caught at his name.

Her body clenched his fingers in a desperate rhythm as her pelvis ground in circles against him. Small, pleased whimpers punctuated each rotation and squeeze, growing softer and slower as she unwound.

“Fuck,” she sighed, relaxing as he relinquished his grip on her hair. “Fucking _fuck_.”

Hiding his grin in her hair, he hummed his agreement. That had been quite an orgasm.

“More?” he asked, curling his fingers inside her.

“Please,” she begged, inching her hips back toward him again. “Fuck me?”

Relief flooded her when he reached up to gather more of the gel on his fingers, and she felt him spreading it on his cock.

“Hm. I don’t know, Granger,” he teased, stroking himself for emphasis. “I’m not convinced you _really_ want to get fucked in the arse.”

She huffed and refused to give him the attention he was obviously angling for.

“I think… if you want my cock…” He leaned in to her ear.

“And you want me to come… in your ass…” he trailed off, letting her listen to him stroking himself.

She froze and waited for him to finish telling her, but he was silent. Merlin, he was exasperating..

" _What?_ ” she hissed, patience exhausted.

“I think you’re going to have to come and get it yourself,” he stated, flopping onto his back.

Rolling over to face him, she glared down at him, incredulous. “You’re a little frustrating, you know that?”

“Mm…” he hummed, still slowly gliding his hand down his erection. “More than a little.”

She hoped her doubt didn’t show in her face as she weighed her options. Other men had jumped at the opportunity for anal sex and never negotiated beyond enthusiastic agreement. Leave it to Draco Malfoy to be the exception.

Everything about his body was long and elegant, and his erection was no exception. She watched his hand slide up and down, his thumb stopping to make a slow circular movement behind the head of his cock every pass. 

Chewing her lip, her mind drifted, wondering what he looked like when he came. Would he choke out her name like she had his?

“Granger,” he said, interrupting her deliberation. “I’m not going to fuck your ass in the fetal position and just hope that goes well. I’d rather you not leave here limping.” Mentally, he berated Potter and vowed to send him a tersely worded letter.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, catching on. “I’ve never… been on top for anal.”

He shrugged, a slow smirk spreading, “Giddy up, greedy witch.”

—————————————

Salazar’s sphincter, he’d fucking underestimated her, he thought. As soon as she’d sunk down and taken his entire length, he was ready to admit he’d lost the upper hand.

His fingers were laced behind his head in a somewhat futile attempt to hide how close to spilling over he was. She simply felt too perfect; tight wet heat sliding and squeezing his cock. And gods, the sounds she made as she came nearly undid him.

She was currently sitting, facing him, with her knees in front of her, eyes glazed, hips working small circles on his cock while her fingers stroked her clit. Every little movement was torture as he held back his own climax to let her pursue hers.

She picked up her pace and gathered speed, approaching her fifth orgasm. He felt her muscles tense around him, and thought of the least sexy things he could. Eira in a bikini. Portkey nausea. Azkaban. That tamped down the threatening roil. For now.

Her hips sank down, hard, and she froze, squeezing him and groaning again.

“Gods be damned, Granger,” he whispered. “I’m coming along with the next one.”

Her eyes lazily drifted down to focus on him. A soft smirk quirked the corners of her mouth. “About time.” Her knees slid down to the bed on either side of his waist, and he propped his torso up, leaning back on his hands. Her shoulders descended toward him, her hips rising. 

She gasped as her clit ground against his pelvis and quickly gathered heat for another crescendo. His breath hissed in as her shallower strokes nudged the head of his cock against the tight ring of muscle in her arse.

“Fuck, Granger,” he whispered as he leaned up to catch her lips.

She opened her mouth to him and let her tongue sweep his bottom lip. He moaned in response. His hands found her ass cheeks as he sat upright and scooped her into his lap, still inside her.

She squeaked in surprise and grinned as she threw her arms up over his shoulders. His mouth peppered kisses along her collarbones as she picked her rhythm back up.

His body tensed as he approached climax, and hers tightened in response. She heard him swearing in French against her chest, and she slid her hands into his hair, holding him against her.

His hands dug into her hips, his cock throbbed, and the pressure inside her exploded, seeking purchase by gripping him as he came. He shuddered as he pulsed inside her, and she moaned into his hair as her body drew every drop from him.

His body relaxed with a deep sigh, and his hands skimmed up her back to her shoulder blades, hugging his face against her upper chest. She laid her cheek on top of his head, fingers stroking through the sweaty strands at his temples.

She nuzzled her lips against his soft hair as she drowsily thought that this was an unexpectedly tender moment she was having with Malfoy, of all people. But it was rather nice.

He shifted his hips and slid himself out of her, but kept a tight hold of her.

With another deep sigh, he flopped onto his back and hugged her down on top of him. His grip on her stayed firm, and she started wondering what she’d gotten herself into.

He showed no indication of moving any time soon, and his hands had started a slow, lulling stroking pattern up and down her back.

“Malfoy,” she said cautiously. “You really ought to warn women first… if you’re…”

He waited, not sure what she was getting at. “If I’m what?” he mumbled against her chest.

“A snuggler,” she hissed conspiratorially. 

His laughter shook her torso, and he relaxed his hold. She slid down to eye level with him. “My deepest, darkest secret, I’m afraid.”

He rose up to catch her lips, and she balked. Rejection coiled, molten, in his gut. The humor in his eyes evaporated, and she cringed.

“I’m sorry. I’m not used to.. this…” She trailed off, thumbs stroking along his upper arms. “I usually get dressed and leave.”

His hands slid down her back to cup her ass. “There’s morning sex and muffins in it if you stay the night.”

“I can’t, I have meet-“ she started, a mental list of all the half-important things she needed to do.

“Apparate in.”

“But I have to-“

“Shh. Just tonight?” he asked. His lips grazed a plea across her jaw. “Try it just tonight?”

Unexpected, unwelcome intimacy warred against the desire to soothe the vulnerability in those kisses.

“Okay,” she sighed and returned the soft graze of his lips. “I’ll try. For muffins.”

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Dark as Night and Light as Air

Crash landing is a simple art,  
Survival’s incidental.  
The falling was the easy part,  
Revival accidental.

DLM 2002 Sea of Okhotsk  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	10. No Holds Robards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut.  
> Malfoy: Legilimency and Seer dreams. I have them. You were in one.  
> Hermione: Share!  
> Malfoy: Here's my soul on a platter. I will regret this.  
> Hermione: Awww...  
> Malfoy: You're used to shitty one-night stands, and that's sad.  
> Hermione: Fuck you...'re really good at that oh shit.
> 
> Harry: But I don't WANT to be Malfoy's parole Auror. And is his ex-fiance a murderer?

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

In the Warmth of Bridges Burned

Know no quarter.  
London, Paris, now Budapest.  
Know no quarter.  
Happy death to your world order.  
In every place you thought we’d rest,  
You find us further dispossessed.  
Know no quarter.

DLM 2003 Azkaban  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

The darkness of his bedroom was absolute. Her eyes scrunched tight to ward it off, and she wondered if he could see in it. Maybe night vision was the tradeoff for his Animagus-related far-sightedness.

Her mind drifted to an octopus she’d seen release an ink cloud in the London aquarium. She sighed and figured this was what it felt like to be the startled predator in sudden darkness. She _had_ sort of invaded his nest.

Steady, slow breathing at her back and the distant sussing of the waves were the only sounds. But the sound of the waves could have been her own heartbeat in her ears, and that was incredibly unnerving. Like being in an enormous seashell.

Earbuds and her mobile sounded like the most convenient solution, and she inched her way out from under the ridiculously thick down comforter. She grasped the ledge to sit up and froze. Something had tangled in her hair and tethered her to the bed.

Her hands found the end of the stuck tendril and felt for the caught object. His breathing changed as she felt through her hair to find his finger wound in a curl.

Suddenly free, she sat up and heard an answering rustle next to her.

“Leaving?” he murmured.

“Oh,” she whispered, startled. She hadn’t planned that far. “I was going to get my mobile out of the kitchen.”

He hummed low, barely awake. “Important middle of the night messages?”

“No,” she chuckled. “It’s just too dark. And too quiet.”

“Poor city mouse.”

The bed sank next to her and she heard him fiddle with things on the ledge at the head of the bed. Soft yellow light made her squint as he lit a candle and shook out the match.

“Better?” he asked. He didn’t wait for a response before he slid back down to one of many pillows. She nodded.

He flipped the fluffy comforter back in invitation. Suddenly aware of how chilly the room was, she scooted back in.

Candlelight cast planes and shadows across his face as he quickly dropped back into a deep sleep. Blond hair fell across his eyes, and she swept it back as she settled into a pillow. The strands between her fingers were pale as spiderweb, and soft as silk. _Fragile_ , she thought.

—————————

_The dream intercepted reality and took him by surprise. Candlelight glanced off auburn highlights in Granger’s curls. Her back was to him, breath coming slow and measured._

_But there was other motion in the bed. Willing his point of view to move, he steered his body to sit up in the bed. Two fluffy white-blonde heads laid between them, not moving but for the subtle rise and fall of their chests. As usual, he couldn’t focus on any details about them._

_In front of Granger, with her arm laid over them, were the girl with the black curls and the auburn-haired boy. The girl was closest to her, curled on her side. The boy was splayed out, little limbs akimbo. Granger’s hand rested on his chest._

_Studying the girl for the first time, he noted that her little mouth looked like a doll version of Granger’s. And really, the boy had a similar bow-shaped upper lip and full lower lip._

_The other two children, he could call them that now, didn’t move in their sleep so much as shimmer, their beings taking up more than one potential physical existence. To look at them was to try to force them into taking a specific form against their wills._

_He laid back down and put an arm over the two children between them. The closest one snuggled into his chest, and the other wiggled closer under his hand._

_The bed that had always felt too large felt right for the first time. There was still plenty of space, but it wasn’t the immense expanse of unbroken tufts and pillows he was used to._

_His hand stroked the impossibly white hair of the two between them. They felt solid, even if he couldn’t see them properly. Gods, how could they always be so soft? And warm?_

_He snuggled in, holding them closer, and sighed, content._

_His eyes felt strained trying to look at them, and he gave up, instead watching Granger. The girl whimpered, and Granger pulled her closer. The girl quieted, safe in her mo-_

—————————

Waking with a start, he sat up and looked under the covers. It was just him and Granger. His eyes ached, still strained from the dream. The bed felt empty, and disorienting.

The candle had burned down a good inch and it was still dark. With a glance out the window, he wondered if her visits would always coincide with a new moon. And maybe he would need to stock up on candles.

A soft sob came from Granger. She lay on her side, facing away from him with an arm hugging a pillow to her chest. The position was eerily similar to his dream, he thought, chewing his lip.

A longer sob tumbled from her, nearly a moan. Scooting closer, he watched her face. She didn’t look upset, but nightmares could be odd. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted, brows relaxed. She looked… eager?

She moaned quietly, and her hips moved. Grinning, he realized she wasn’t having a bad dream. A rather good dream, in fact.

Curiosity weighed out over caution, and he sent a tendril of Legilimency to her. Surprisingly, she had no barriers whatsoever, and the feel of butter-soft vellum skimmed through him as images took shape.

It was nonsense at first, just a mirage of naked skin in her living room. He waited and watched, letting the images coalesce until Granger took form. She was straddling one man, another in her mouth. The men kept changing forms, a rotation of red, black, and blonde hair. Limbs and torsos shuddered, reforming. Their bodies kept drifting positions, her silhouette the only stable one.

The man in front of her disappeared, and she pinned Draco with her gaze. _Oh, shit_ , he thought. The dream snapped, and images of fire engulfed his vision.

“Malfoy, you nosy mother fucker,” she hissed, seething as she sat up. “Didn’t know you were a Legilimens. Hell of a way to find out.”

“Granger, I-“ he stammered, eyes wide.

“You what? Poke around people’s dreams?” she said pointedly.

“You were moaning. I thought it was a nightmare, but I wasn’t sure, so I looked,” he said, panic making his voice quiver. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Anger abating, she had to admit to herself that wasn’t the worst reason to use Legilimency. But she wasn’t thrilled that he’d gotten good eyeful of what she’d done with Harry and Ron in her apartment, with him randomly spliced in for good measure.

“I think you owe me,” she said, a bit self-righteous. “Dirty dream featuring you for a long, detailed description of a dirty dream featuring me.”

Relief sagged him back against the pillows, but confusion set in. His last coherent dream about sex had been… at Durmstrang? Weird.

“Hm. Tempting. I don’t have any recent dirty dreams of you. And telling you what I dreamed of doing to you in the library when we were fifteen seems… wrong. Very wrong. Hex-worthy.” He grinned, hoping to distract her.

She harrumphed, arms crossed over her chest. “Fine. Most recent dream of me, in general.”

Oh, Merlin’s mandibles, that was worse. Emptying his balls into her in the Restricted Section was far less likely to get his dick hexed off than a dream that involved snuggling what may or may not be little Grangers.

“And teach me whatever backwards form of Legilimency you use. That was… interesting. I can only do a little.”

“I’ll teach you some in the morning. It allows projection as well as reading. And plays with Occlumency in interesting ways.”

He must have thought too long, because she hopped up and sat on him, a wicked gleam in her eye.

“Oh, you are absolutely showing me whatever’s got you this scared, Malfoy,” she said, a wicked glint in her eyes.

“I… just… don’t fucking hex me, Granger,” he pleaded. “And don’t leave because of it?”

Worry traced her brow as she sank her weight onto his hips, enjoying the solid feel of him. Her face fell. “Is it violent?”

He laughed, and she bounced as his belly contracted. “No, no. Probably the least violent dream you’ve ever seen. And extremely recent. You woke me up from it just now.”

She chewed her lip in thought. Mostly unaware that her hips were pressing at a rather pleasant angle. What could be non-violent, non-sexual, and scare her off? “Show me." She leaned down to clonk her forehead indelicately against his.

He grinned and put his fingertips to her head. “It’ll feel cold in the corners of your eyes, but it won’t hurt,” he said in warning.

With that tidbit, she decided she was officially more interested in the Legilimency than the dream itself. Why hadn’t they learned multiple methodologies in school? Probably because it worked in places where the Ministry had warded against magic, she figured. Curtailing their education again.

He chewed his lip as he prepared the memory, starting with him lighting the candle so she could see the beginning. And he cut it off at her moaning, hoping it would placate her some about why he’d used it on her in her sleep.

In one nudge, he sent it to her. If she had a decent amount of control, she would be able to watch it unfold at any speed she chose, and possibly rewind and rewatch it a few times. She might make a good student if she could. It would be nice to have a student again, he thought.

Having sent it, he lay back, forehead to forehead, and waited. Her hips had stopped grinding against him, unfortunately. He was fairly sure she didn’t know she’d been doing it. Probably still rather aroused from her dream. And wet. And hot. And currently watching him snuggle children in bed with her. 

Fuck.

—————————

At first, she thought the dream he’d shared was just a recent memory. It was interesting, though. His memories included a fair amount of emotion, and the depth of it shocked her. 

He’d been absolutely sure she was sneaking out in the middle of the night. Unexpected grief ached in her chest. And when he’d lit the candle, she did look like a caged animal escaping.

His relief when she got back in bed was palpable. Falling into his dream was seamless, except that the point of view was hard to control. They were still in bed, but there were other people with them. Kids? 

She watched herself holding two small children, maybe three or four years old. And he was holding two other children between them, but she couldn’t get a good look at them.

She felt his awe at being allowed to touch them, and his trust in her holding the other two. Mixed in was a certain amount of relief that they were still and contained. It made her wonder if this dream wasn’t always so peaceful.

The girl in her arms whimpered, and she hugged her. And suddenly she was looking down at herself in a memory, not a dream. She was hugging a pillow, and she really was making some odd noises. He hadn’t lied about that. The conflict warring inside him over what to do was suffocating, then the memory froze.

It hadn’t been unreasonable of him to worry she was having a nightmare, but non-consensual Legilimency was still a dodgy move.

She rewound the memory to look at the children again. The girl’s dark curls and sweeping brows reminded her of Harry. And the boy’s hair looked like Ginny’s thick auburn locks. The children between them didn’t have defined faces, or features. Odd. Very odd.

She let the dream pull her back into its flow. His contentment was thick like bathwater. It was so unlike the short turmoil of his wakefulness before and after the dream. He felt… at peace.

—————————

Her eyes fluttered open, after far longer than he’d expected. He shut his eyes, expecting her to sit up and either mock or berate him. Would she call him a pervert or something just generally emasculating?

Instead, her forehead lifted from his and her lips replaced it. She took a deep breath through his hair, letting the scent of teakwood linger. He must have snuck off for a bath at some point, she thought.

Her lips pressed to his forehead, and he swallowed thickly. He wondered if this was a chaste farewell.

She sighed and leaned her chest into him. “That felt like Sunday mornings when I was little. I used to crawl into my parents’ bed and they’d tell stories and read books till we got hungry. Then we’d make pancakes. They don’t remember it, but I do.”

He opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. She absolved him of his response by claiming his mouth in a slow, deep kiss that made him moan in surprised reassurance.

She drew back and shot him a grin, “That was the _least_ Slytherin thing I’ve ever seen.”

Studying her, he murmured, “The Sorting Hat was kind of racist. And definitely crooked.”

“Well, it was an old hat,” she reasoned. “It had gotten floppy.”

He bit his lip and thought about how much he wanted her to know. Not just about him, but about the school, possibly the wizarding community, even. Hogwarts graduates had a tendency to put entirely too much stock in their house affiliations, even as adults, and he didn’t want to give Granger some kind of identity crisis. Though, in his opinion, she’d have been better off in Ravenclaw.

In his third year, he’d been left unattended in Dumbledore’s office shortly after the Sorting Ceremony. It had been a rather informative conversation. “No, I mean… Lucius bribed it,” he said warily “to sort me into Slytherin.”

“He _what_?!” she reeled. “How do you bribe a _hat_?!” She leaned back to look at him, hands on his shoulders. His hands traced up her sides, and goosebumps followed. Early morning was rather chilly in a stone room.

“Uhm… With delousing charms, apparently. It was convinced a Muggleborn was going to give it lice,” he admitted. “Its vision wasn’t good, and it thought I was my father, come to disinfect it after the Ceremony.”

“You’re having me on,” she said skeptically. “That’s absolute nonsense.”

He shrugged and dreaded the question she was inevitably going to ask him, and the disbelief she was likely to shower him with. Pansy had been making fun of him for over a decade.

He dragged the fluffy duvet up around her waist. It looked like a Victorian skirt, and a smile quirked his lip. Lady Granger.

“So…” she trailed off, and he braced himself. “What house were you supposed to be in? Did it tell you?”

“It did. And I’ll give you precisely one hint, Granger,” he stated as his hands ran up her thighs alongside his waist. “And only one guess. Judge based on what you’ve seen in my head, not in school.”

If she had to pick, she would have assumed Ravenclaw, based on how often she’d seen him in the library. He’d closely competed with her for marks, as well. But he also pulled enough dumb irrational shit as a student to keep up with the Gryffindor boys.

But judge him by what she’d seen in his head? She’d never seen his memories in a Pensieve or anything. Just this dream he’d sent her. Oh. “Hufflepuff?” she guessed. 

He nodded, relieved she’d guessed on the first try, and didn’t look prepared to mock him for it. 

“Huh,” she pondered, eyeing him closely. “You’d look _abominable_ in yellow, though.”

He barked a laugh, flipped her over onto her back and smothered her giggles in kisses.

—————————

Harry couldn’t sleep. 4:00 AM. The Indecision Hour. Not night, not quite day. Just enough time for an unsatisfying nap before he had to get up. He tried to get comfortable in bed. And failed. Fuck it.

Robards said as early as possible. He’d just get there at 5:00 and sit outside the Head Auror office till Robards came in.

At 5:15, coffee and Daily Prophet in hand, he rounded the corner in the DMLE section to find Robards’ office wide open. A rectangle of light graced the hallway floor like a welcome mat. Or a trap door, he thought.

A knock on the door frame and embedded ward announced his arrival. Robards looked up from his desk and motioned Harry in. The man looked like he’d been through a war. Well, another war.

The office may have survived an attack, as well. File cabinets hung open, reams of paper drifted through the air, settling themselves into distinct piles. An aerial ballet of bureaucracy that made Harry shudder and wonder if it was too late to change careers.

“Potter, you’re suspiciously early for being summoned at your leisure on a Sunday morning. And you’re off today and tomorrow, even.” He looked Harry up and down, unable to discern any real difference from his usual disheveled state. “Been out on the town all night?”

The casual familiarity knocked Harry off kilter. Robards was a consummate professional, if nothing else. It made him wonder what kind of shenanigans his supervisor had gotten up to when he was a young Auror.

“I… No, sir. That was Friday night,” Harry ventured, pulling a chair up.

Robards chuckled knowingly. His face sobered when he saw the newspaper Harry was tucking under his leg.

“So, you’ve read the news, I take it?” Robards grimaced.

“Oh, no, I just picked it up on the way in. Why?” Harry’s unease was growing rapidly, and he sipped his coffee to hide it.

“Well, be wary of the slant they put on it when you do read it.” He hesitated. “I’m stepping down, Potter. Not by choice. And I’m not sure who’ll replace me, but I assume you’re in the forerunning.”

“I… What?” Harry froze, coffee halfway to his lips. “I heard you were retiring. Next year.”

“Well, that was going to be the story, but the Prophet got someone to talk.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m assigning a case to you. It’s not currently under investigation, and might be quietly closed in a year. Or it might be implicated and reopened and dragged through the press for a decade.”

“So give it to the poster boy,” Harry muttered bitterly into his cup.

Robards shrugged. “A little, yes. But I’d have chosen you even if you weren’t photogenic,” he tried to joke.

“This is why you’re whoring me out to Witch Weekly again? To take the heat off of you.” Resentment had crept in and taken up residence. Robards leaving with his tail between his legs wasn’t sounding so bad anymore.

“Oh, no.” Robards leaned back in his chair, exhausted. “That was just to get out ahead of the news of Adams hexing a bystander. But it won’t hurt with this, either.”

His coffee was slowly burning his mouth, but he was almost grateful for the distraction. Something needed to keep his tongue in check at the moment.

His respect for Robards had eroded steadily over the last few years after watching him let Aurors like Adams off the hook repeatedly. Being forced out of his position by scandal was the last nail in the coffin. This man was no longer Head Auror. He was just another disgraced bureaucrat.

“Just spill it, Robards. All of it. On the table.” He pinned Robards' gaze, green eyes hard. “I may or may not end up at this desk, and if I walk into a trap, I’ll drag you through the mud till after I’m dead.”

The slam of the door made him jump, scalding coffee splattering across the back of his hand. He licked it off, pausing to listen to the increasing hum of the office wards. It was a shrill, faint sound. And familiar.

With a start, he recognized the irritating hum. It nearly matched the sound Malfoy had made while healing Ron. Did Robards use illegal Blood Magic to ward his Ministry office? 

“Interesting wards you have, Gawain,” he said speculatively. Robards cleared his throat, covering one hand with the other. 

“If you do end up at this desk, you’ll understand why, Potter.”

The wards reached their crescendo and quieted, but Harry had the distinct sensation of being enclosed underwater. Godric, how bad was this going to be?

He glared at Robards expectantly. 

“Right, well. How much do you know about the Auror deaths in the Durmstrang raid?” Robards laced his fingers together and began.

Harry’s coffee rose in his throat, and he swallowed it down. Bad. This was going to be very bad.

—————————

“Granger!” Draco's voice echoed slightly through the rooms. “Damn you, Granger, you’d better keep your sticky mitts out of those muffins!”

A muffled shout that sounded vaguely like _Make me_ bounced back to him. That was it. His muffins were in peril. Springing from the bed, he raced between the bookshelves to the living room.

She looked up from the sink and froze, slowly chewing. She’d _had_ to stop in the kitchen to wash her hands. His “rustic loo” didn’t have a sink. Or running water. So she’d _had_ to check and make sure the muffins hadn’t gotten stale overnight. It would have been impolite _not_ to.

She swallowed demonstrably and dried her hands on her t-shirt. Her jeans were somewhere in the living room, and she was glad she’d packed a handful of knickers.

No man should look so dangerously sexy while stalking through a living room in pajama bottoms. 

She caught his gaze and took another slow bite of her stolen muffin. He lifted an eyebrow in challenge as he passed the table to stand in front of her. The rest of the muffin was deftly plucked out of her hand and shoved whole into his mouth.

He shook his head disapprovingly and stepped in, pinning her hips against the sink. Still chewing, he leveled an accusatory finger at her, then swung it to point at the bedroom. She didn’t move, pretending to not understand the gesture.

He snapped his fingers, and flicked his index finger, swallowing with a wince. “Go. Thief.”

With a harrumph and toss of her hair, she slid from between him and the sink to walk casually back to the bed. He watched her sashay intentionally and shook his head, smiling.

—————————

Harry wondered if he would be more or less likely to be shoved into the Head Auror position if he vomited on the floor of said office. Maybe it would disqualify him somehow? Or would it be considered staking his claim?

His empty coffee cup between his feet mocked him. Mere minutes ago, when it had been full and scorching his mouth, he hadn’t been a knowing accomplice in an international murder coverup. 

And now? Now the cup was empty, and he was about to retch.

Robards was wrapping up the gory details of an unexplained death of a wizard in a bar in Ballycastle after a Bats match. The man’s brain had been mush, and he’d dropped dead, bleeding from every hole in his head, right there in the bar after an argument. But that wasn’t the nauseating part. Not really.

Being on the edge of the Ministry’s territory, and a bit of an anti-Ministry hotspot, the owner had alerted the International Confederation of Wizards as well as the Ministry. 

The ICW had shipped the body to the Asklepieion of Kos for a thorough autopsy, while the Ministry had a hissy fit. Harry had no idea what the Asklepieion of Kos was, but it was evidently some kind of hot shot international Healer’s guild.

An examination by Aurors at the scene had detected no magical cause for the man’s death, and the case was shelved in the UK months ago.

Kos, however, had found an identical cause of death in two Aurors involved in the Ministry’s somewhat-illegal raid of Durmstrang five years ago. The ICW published the findings, making special note of the Ministry’s attempt to pass the deaths off as blunt force trauma. They’d included a tasteful footnote reminding the world of the Ministry and Hogwarts’ public censures for their failures and actions in the war, as well.

The report had been out for less than twenty-four hours, and the press was fucking rioting.

**New Dark Wizard Rising???  
Ministry Buries Aurors, Quidditch Fan, and TRUTH!  
Ballycastle Brain Bludger Bungles Ministry  
Ministry Mishandling of Misconduct Materializes!**

And his favorite, **He-Who- _HAS_ -No-Name Annihilates Aurors, Disgraces DMLE, Invades Ireland**.

Godric, what an epic fuckup. Covering up the deaths of the Aurors was sloppy and lazy, Harry thought. But trying to rug-sweep a civilian murder was unconscionable. 

That wasn’t the part that was making Harry consider the ramifications of vomiting on the floor, though. 

It was the link. The very obvious link between the Durmstrang raid and the Bats.

It was Falk.

—————————

“I’m starting to think you weren’t kidding last night about the horrible Muggleborn girl hiding her hips from you,” she whispered as she watched him kiss his way back up to the indent of her waist.

He hummed in agreement. “I really do like a good pelvis.” He punctuated the statement by burying his face in her waist and blowing a raspberry.

She shrieked and tried to wiggle away, but he held her tight.

“Some men fixate on tits, or legs, or asses. I like hips.” He worked his way back down and slid her knickers lower. “Well, and shoulders. But not on women.” 

He licked a hot line down the crease of her thigh, and she tensed up to meet him.

“Not on women? So… on men?” Nuanced conversation was nearly impossible with him randomly licking and kissing the junction of her thigh.

“Mm hmm.” His preferred topic of conversation would have been how torturously slowly he was going to make her come underneath him, but changing course now would seem suspicious.

Her faculties returned slightly, and she lifted her head to look at him. She met his eyes over the horizon of her poorly-chosen Christmas tree-printed panties. He’d only made seven or eight jokes about boxes and unwrapping them.

“So, you’re… interested in men?” she asked tentatively. 

The idea had… possibilities. Ron and Harry’s camaraderie in bed had surprised and fascinated her. Men actually interacting with each other? And her? At the same time? Goosebumps flooded her arms.

Her reaction didn’t escape his notice. Another pair of knickers defeated, he thought, looking at the damp cloth.

“Sometimes,” he said. He rested his chin on the dry edge of the fabric. “It was never much of a secret in Pureblood circles.”

He was uncomfortably close to her clit, and his talking sent a delicious hum between her legs.

“Your parents know?” She couldn’t see Lucius and Narcissa accepting that their son would ever grow up to be anything but his father.

“They walked in on it several times during winter break in… third year?” he frowned, thinking. “Yeah, third year. Same year as the Sorting Hat debacle.”

“Third year?!” she sputtered, eyes wide. Godric, she’d still been figuring out how to masturbate at that age.

He laid his cheek on her groin. “Ernie and I were rather precocious. And my parents approved of his bloodline enough to look the other way.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “You dated _Ernie_? When we were, like, fourteen? How did I not know that?!” 

Images of him mid-coitus with the shaggy blonde Hufflepuff prefect flooded her. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Actually, he’d gotten rather handsome by graduation.

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it dating, but Weasley might have known. That kind of information flowed more by birth house than school house. Dalliances, betrothals, and whatnot.”

“Betrothals? In school? Why was I so out of the loop?” She sat up, worked into a solid huff. “And why the hell would you and Ernie not be the talk of the Great Hall?”

“Kind of surprised you _didn’t_ know. We didn’t knock it off till seventh year.”

“But he turned you into a slug!” she blustered.

He shrugged again. “I got better.”

————————

Harry was _not_ having an epic, blubbering meltdown in his office. On his day off. It was all so fucked. He was fucked. His career was fucked. The DMLE was fucked. The Ministry was fucked. All of it, just fucked.

Even his office was fucked. Senior Aurors got rather large offices, and now his was crammed full of file cabinets and Pensieve storage. The crumpled tissues surrounding the garbage can didn’t help the aesthetics. 

“Malfoy, D. L., Jun. 5, 1980, #58720” repeated itself everywhere. On every paper, in every file, in every cabinet. On every vial, on every shelf, on every fucking surface.

 _#58720_ was burned in his mind, etched itself at the edges of his vision, sat at the tip of his tongue, and teased him from his own wrist. He was literally wearing Malfoy’s identification number on a fucking bracelet.

It was oddly claustrophobic and likely to be his downfall. He’d told Robards he was the _last_ Auror who should be responsible for overseeing Malfoy’s parole, but every reason he gave Robards twisted around.

Harry was kind of friends with Malfoy now, so that was a conflict of interest, right?  
Not according to Robards. That was an _asset_. 

Robards had been thrilled to get notification that Auror Potter had pulled the Malfoy files out of curiosity. And he was elated when the Ministry ward alerted him to Potter passing into Malfoy’s property, _not_ killing Malfoy, and exiting.

Apparently, finding an Auror that didn’t want to execute Malfoy on sight had been a serious issue.

Harry had argued that he and Malfoy had too much history. Robards thought that was great. It gave him perspective.

Harry protested that he wasn’t experienced. Robards countered that Harry was unlikely to retire and pass the buck.

Harry had, however, stopped short of mentioning their pseudo-romantic entanglement with Hermione. If cursing, hexing, and dueling each other wasn’t enough to deter Robards, fucking the same woman was unlikely to make a difference.

Also absent from his attempted rationalizations was the disorienting effect Malfoy had always had on him. Finding out about his relationship with Falk had picked loose the edges of an epiphany, but he didn’t have the time or energy to unravel that at the moment.

Nothing would have dissuaded Robards from assigning him to be Malfoy’s nanny. The bracelet felt heavy. It was just a strip of black leather, but it felt like an iron shackle. Controlling wards with a device wasn’t anything new to him, but being required to wear one for the foreseeable future sure was.

The depth of his autonomy with this case was absurd, as well. Robards had all but said Harry could walk in and kill Malfoy and not face charges. Alternately, he could bust his ass and help Malfoy re-integrate into society, and nobody would give half a shit about that, either.

His gut churned as he remembered Robards final words on the case.

“Potter, there’s no winning or losing with this. It’s not Quidditch,” he’d cautioned. ”All you can do here is find the moral high ground and defend it. The rest is out of your control.”

 _”Find the moral high ground and defend it.”_ Fuck.

—————————

“So prone to violence, you Gryffindors,” Malfoy chided. “You’ll never get what you want with threats.” He licked another slow swath up the center of her sopping cunt, swirling at the top around her clit.

Hermione growled, low and angry. “I swear to every pantheon of mankind’s invention, I will fucking end you.”

“Still capable of creative swearing. Not ready.” He traced slick fingers down her folds and stopped just outside her entrance to tease.

A soft sob broke from her throat as her hips tried to slide down onto his waiting fingers. He slid them back up to her clit and watched her try to angle herself to receive them as they slid back down. He lifted them slowly as they skimmed down her crease, lifting them just outside the opening to her pussy.

“Poor greedy witch. You’re too used to getting what you want in the bedroom, Granger,” he observed. “I think those Muggle men spoiled you. Like the fast food of sex.”

He hoisted himself up to lay next to her and his breath hissed as she immediately grabbed a hold of him and started stroking. He responded by pressing on her clit hard with his palm and teasing her slit with his fingertips again. She moaned with his palm, and growled with his fingertips.

“See, and there’s the difference, Granger.” He looked down at her. “Still in there?”

She opened her eyes and glared fury at him. Her hips twitching involuntarily, begging his fingers to do _anything_ more substantial than this dance. 

“I’m not one for fast food. Planning the next dinner’s menu while washing the dishes is more my speed. Do you follow?”

She shook her head. Merlin, she was absolutely gone. Her pupils were enormous in the early morning light. Her chest rose and fell in a ragged pattern punctuated by whimpers and groans, and he _loved_ it. Golden girl undone.

He took her hand away from stroking him and set it on her breast. “Here, hold this.” She complied, kneading and plucking a nipple.

“Fast food. Pub fare. You realize you’re very hungry. It’s there. It tastes good. You eat it. End of story. Or fuck, as it were,” he explained, letting just a little condescension leak through. “Now, the opposite would be a formal dinner.”

He propped up on an elbow, reaching his fingers just a touch lower, pressing at her core. A low groan leaked out between her clenched teeth. “Please,” she whispered.

Ignoring her, he continued, coming to kneel between her thighs, hands firmly holding her hips down. “You know about it in advance. You may even know the menu. And you starve all day in that anticipation.”

He leaned forward, letting the tip of his cock brush her opening. Her breath hissed in, and her thighs fell open in grateful expectation. “And then when you’re seated, and it’s in front of you, you eat it as slowly as humanly possible, because it’s the best fucking thing you’ve ever put in your mouth.”

He dipped the head of his erection into her slickness, spreading it around. Her head rose up to watch him, eyes wild, color high. “Because not only have you been looking forward to it, but someone else has been preparing it…”

He leaned forward, sliding his head fully inside. Her breath caught in anticipation.

“…all…”

Her walls stretched to finally accept him, and she whimpered, urging him to hurry.

“…fucking…”

The tense weight of climax was already building in her as he slowly, slowly slid himself fully inside, hips coming to rest against hers.

“…day.”

Her hips thrust up, trying to get the last little bit of friction needed, but he held her still.

A frustrated groan spilled from her. “Please… just… fuck me?” she begged.

Mocking disappointment, he lowered himself down to his elbows over her and kissed her chin. 

“You weren’t listening at all, Granger.”

Pleasure ricocheted through her body as he angled his hips upward and gave one small thrust. Muffling her scream against his shoulder did nothing to quiet her as her core squeezed around him and her hips ground in time with it. Gradually, her body relaxed its hold on him and let him begin to move.

“I’m not going to _fuck_ you,” he whispered, leaning down to her ear. “I’m going to _make love_ to you… till you can’t fucking see straight.”

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

By the Balls

O Warden, my Warden?  
Now what have you done?  
Entanglement together?  
Merlin, this should be bloody fun.

You look so scared, flushed and raven-haired;  
The Ministry’s close watch.  
Just between us. Don’t make a fuss.  
This is a case you’ll botch.

DLM 2007 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	11. Underthings and Overtones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut.  
> Hermione: I am developing feelings and am going to blaze out of here now.  
> Draco: I feel abandoned and regret oversharing and have crippling self-doubt now.
> 
> Ron: Harry, it's fine that you're attracted to men. Nobody cares.  
> Harry: I am not-  
> Ron: HARRY. IT'S FINE. SERIOUSLY.  
> Harry: Really?  
> Crookshanks: I found these knickers under the couch.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Taking All Bets

I give me a month.  
Oh, you give me five?  
Please don’t count me lucky,  
If I’m still alive.

DLM Truro 2004  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

“Let me out, or I’ll…” she trailed off, not sure how to threaten him without magic. He’d thrown the damned duvet over his back while he was on top of her, and she was, quite literally, hot and bothered.

His arms scooped up behind her shoulders. “You’ll _what_?” He said goading her while keeping a holding pattern of short, slow thrusts. Just enough to keep her interested without moving toward another climax.

“I’ll… bite you?” she threatened weakly. Gods, if he didn’t either stop moving or go faster, she really would. Sweat trickled between her breasts uncomfortably. How was he not hot?

He hummed his interest and dropped his shoulder in front of her chin. “Go on, then, Granger.” Briefly confused, she searched his face and found patient interest. He wasn’t joking.

She grazed her lips against the skin between his shoulder and neck, and he leaned his head away, sucking in a breath. He was slick with sweat under her lips, and she scowled. He was just as overheated as she was. Bastard.

Her tongue ran a line up to his ear, drawing a shudder from his chest. Interesting, she thought. Thrilled at finding a way to disrupt his teasing, she tentatively locked her teeth over the muscle of his shoulder. It earned her a deep rolling thrust from him, and she moaned.

A hot, pink flush was creeping up his chest and neck as she nipped her way along his jaw, and back down his neck.

She kissed the faint imprints she’d left, and brushed her way to his collarbone, already eliciting deeper, erratic thrusts from him. Licking along the length of the ridge to his shoulder, her teeth gently grasped it.

Soft expletives fell from his lips as his hips gathered speed and depth. “Say when?” she asked, quietly unsure. He hummed his agreement.

Sweaty white-blond hair stuck up at odd angles, and his cheeks were fluorescent pink. His shallow breathing and parted lips gave away how much her attentions had affected him.

Coiled pleasure was growing rapidly as he finally left the teasing thrusts behind. She set her teeth in the center of his collarbone, steadily applying pressure. His head dropped to her shoulder as his hips drew back and thrust deep, pausing to grind against her at the bottom of each stroke. His breath shook as he tried to maintain a rhythm.

Hot tendrils of pressure spilled over, and she bit down with finality as her body gripped him, coursing waves of pleasure through her. He groaned low and shameless, throbbing inside her as she held him tight. Quieting, she licked across the imprint of her teeth, embarrassed to have left such a violent mark on him. He shivered and caught her lips in a deep, melding kiss. 

Sweat dripped down his nose onto her cheek, and she grinned, breaking the kiss. He lifted himself up on his hands, pulling out, and the sweat between them ran down the sides of her waist.

“Ugh, _now_ would you like to throw the damned blanket off?” she inquired, wiping the rivlets away with her hands

He got up on his knees, dramatically wrapping it around himself like a cape. 

“Never!” he shouted, flopping down cocooned next to her, grinning like a loon.

————————

Godric, how Harry usually loved the Burrow. But not today. Usually, he appreciated everyone asking about his well-being, but at this Sunday morning feast, he was visibly unwell and rather tired of lying about it. 

And there was no coffee or even proper tea. Just the pitcher of red death.

“Oi, Har, when did you start wearing bracelets?” Ron asked around a mouthful of sausage.

Harry forced himself to swallow a bite of muffin. He was truly and utterly fucked if he was in a bad mood eating one of Molly’s muffins.

“It’s for work,” he muttered. “For a case.” Bill passed him a plate of eggs, and he passed it on to Ron.

“Oh, that’s bollocks. Why’s it got Hermione’s name on it?” Ron asked. She didn’t give him a bracelet. Now he wanted a bracelet, dammit.

Harry froze mid-muffin, flipping his wrist over. Sure enough, scrawled in white letters on the black leather, was _Hermione Jean Granger_.

Merlin be damned. Hermione must have gone to Malfoy’s this morning. The thing did work. Ron was waiting for an answer, and he wasn’t sure how much he was allowed to divulge. But then again, he pretty much had no oversight or objective for this case.

 _Find the moral high ground and defend it_ , Robards had instructed. Ron knowing his assignment didn’t endanger Malfoy. It could potentially benefit him, even, in case of emergencies.

The letters faded, and he pursed his lips. “I’m Malfoy’s new… Auror nanny? Robards foisted his parole oversight and case on me. The bracelet reports ward crossings.”

Ron’s face gradually turned purple, and he burst out laughing. “Ron, shut the fuck up,” Harry hissed. “You don’t have to alert all of Devon.”

“Oh, Godric.” Ron heaved, dabbing the corners of his eyes with a napkin. “But you’re the one that called him a bloody disaster magnet. I guess that makes you the disaster.”

“Thanks, mate.” Harry scowled. “Like I was real thrilled with work before this crap.”

“Sorry, I just, it’s hilarious.” Ron suppressed another round of giggles. “What exactly do you _do_ as his babysitter?”

“On a day to day basis, I don’t know. Long-term, go down with him, it sounds like.” Harry frowned, biting into the muffin, not eager to talk about the potential decade’s worth of drama and press coverage this case could present.

Ron stared at him, mouth agape. “Har, they got no right to tell you to do that,” Ron said sternly. “I know they ask Aurors to put themselves in a lot of dangerous situations, but that is _not_ okay.”

“I don’t like it, but it might only be for the next year, and I can handle that.” Harry reasoned out, picking up crumbs with his thumb.

Ron didn’t like the sound of the whole setup. “No, Har, if you decide to pursue that on your own time, that’s fine. Great, even. But for them to tell you you have to do it to stay an Auror, that’s got to be illegal.”

Harry was now thoroughly confused. “Why would I choose to tank my career on my own time, Ron?”

“Oh.” Ron paused, rehashing Harry’s words. “Down _with_. Like, in flames. Not... Nevermind.”’

Ron concentrated very hard on his teacup. Harry watched him, the light slowly dawning behind his eyes.

“For _fuck’s sake_ , Ron!” Harry yelled. 

Molly, Fleur, Audrey, and Percy all shot daggers at him. Bill looked thrilled at the possibility of bloodshed at brunch. Arthur had been stricken with sudden and total deafness, the cure for which was obviously at the bottom of the butter dish.

Ron stood and nodded to Harry to follow him outside. Harry huffed and obliged. He led them out to the rubble field, which was somewhat more organized. 

Layering Bombarda Maximas with Arresto Momentums and Carpe Retractas had thus far resulted in being able to blow out the granite bedrock and blast it into neat blocks, which stacked themselves nicely in a small wall. A vast improvement, if anyone asked. Which they did not.

“Well, what, Ron?” Harry demanded, kicking small rocks down into the nearest pit. It was meters deeper than it had been even a few days ago. What the fuck was Ron doing out here?

“The Malfoy thing, Harry,” Ron gently suggested. 

He’d always hoped he wouldn’t have to nudge his best friend into this personal revelation. It didn’t feel like his place, but maybe nobody else was going to show up out of the blue and do this.

“What about it? I didn’t get a choice about this case.” Harry retorted.

“No, I don’t mean the case,” Ron said, sitting down at the edge of the ledge, surveying his work and choosing his words very, very carefully. “I mean that it’s okay if you find him attractive.”

“I don-“ Harry fired back, fists clenched, but was cut off.

“Don’t, Harry. Hear me out?” Ron asked. Harry huffed, but nodded. “If I’d have misunderstood, say, Bill, for saying he was planning on sucking some guy off, would he have screamed expletives in front of all the kids at brunch?”

It was Harry’s turn to sit down and speak softly. “No.” His cheeks were turning scarlet, and he was helpless to stop it.

“And if I’d have misunderstood and thought the Ministry was requiring you to lick some convicted bint, would you have exploded like that?” Ron asked carefully.

“I… no, probably not.” Harry admitted, wrapping his arms around his middle. The edges of his vision felt blurry, and he wiped his glasses to no avail.

“Malfoy is an objectively attractive man.” Ron turned to face him, one foot dangling over the pit. “Hell, ask Hermione. She has excellent taste, we can agree. We’re both fit as shit.”

Harry let out a deep breath and nodded. Ron would drop this soon. He didn’t need to respond.

“And so,” Ron continued, “if you also find him attractive, you’re in good company. Do you follow me?”

Harry nodded. That fucking pufferfish was back in his throat, but today it was digging its spines in. But it was fine. He didn’t have to talk about it.

“Harry,” Ron encouraged. “It really is fine. And I’m not going to drop it. Not this time.”

Gods, his chest was on fire, and everything was fucking blurry and his throat felt like it was strangling itself. But Ron was still waiting for a response, not caring that his best friend was dying in front of him.

“I don’t…” Harry croaked. Fucking pufferfish. He sniffed. “I don’t want to, Ron.”

“Don’t want what, Har?” Ron murmured.

“I don’t want it. I don’t want to talk about it,” he choked out.

“I know you don’t, mate.” Ron scooted in and threw an arm around his shoulders. “But I promise, the only people who’ll give a shit are some _very_ excited menfolk. Some of them might even be rather good-looking.”

Harry flicked his glasses on top of his head to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. Pain lanced through Ron’s heart watching that familiar old gesture. He hadn’t seen that since shortly after the war.

“It’s… it’s not that easy, though, Ron,” he insisted, a shuddering sigh helping open his throat.

“No, but it won’t be as hard as you think.” Ron shrugged. “Like, people, especially wizards, just really don’t give a shit.”

“Nah,” Harry shook his head. ”Guys at school made so many jokes about it. And a lot of the Aurors do, too.”

If he’d had a wall, Ron would have head-butted it. “They were flirting, Harry. Often with you. Think about who made all the jokes.”

Harry looked gobsmacked. Slowly blinking, he closed his mouth and thought. 

“Well, Malfoy,” he offered. He remembered Malfoy and Ernie trading barbs in the Great Hall on numerous occasions.

Ron nodded. 

Harry continued, “Ernie, especially closer to graduation.”

“He and Malfoy were a… thing from like, fourth year to-“

“ _What?!_ “ Harry barked. “When did you find out?!”

“Fourth year, obviously. It wasn’t a secret.” Ron squinted, trying to remember the dumb minutia of pubertal hijinks. ”Though I think they’d actually started in third year,”

“How did I not…” Harry trailed off, both angry at Ron for not telling him, and angry with himself for not figuring it out.

“Har, come on,” Ron chided. “You didn’t see what you didn’t want to see. Remember when they showed up to breakfast in the wrong ties and wrestled them off each other on the Great Hall floor?”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded. “I was worried Ernie was going to get his nose broken before class.”

Ron laughed and clapped his hand on Harry’s thigh. “Lovers play-fighting, Harry. How the hell did you think they ended up in the wrong ties that morning?”

Stunned, Harry gazed, unseeing, into the pit, bouncing the heels of his shoes against the wall.

Ron continued, “You really didn’t know about Malfoy till he brought up Falk the other day, did you?”

Harry shook his head.

“And you didn’t know Ernie was flirting with you for years, huh?” Ron asked.

Harry was reeling. Ernie had been _flirting_ with him, and he’d told him to fuck off so many times. And he’d otherwise liked Ernie. Maybe really, really liked him. Fuck.

Ron laid down on his back, watching the clouds roll by, giving Harry some space to excruciatingly dissect every conversation he’d ever had with men who’d scared him off with misinterpreted compliments and innuendo.

Harry flopped down next to him, brow furrowed in concentration. “Was Stephen Cornfoot flirting with me, too?” Harry asked in careful monotone.

“Yup…” Ron drawled, trying to not smile.

“Son of a _bitch_!” Harry shouted at no one. “He was, uhm, kind of gorgeous.”

“Kinda still is,” said Ron, grinning. “I think he works at Gringotts. I see him around the Alley. He asks about you.”

“Huh. Who else?” Harry asked, almost excitedly.

“From school? I think those were the only two who hit on you,” Ron surmised, “and Malfoy.”

“Ugh, no. You’re lying.” Harry groaned. “He hated me.”

“No, mate. He very much liked you. And _you_ hated _that_. His compliments didn’t start out sarcastic.” 

Ron felt like he was giving a Wizard Studies lecture, if such a class had existed. And now he wondered if maybe it should. It would have made more sense than making Harry and Hermione take Muggle Studies.

“Give me an example.” Harry requested, rolling on his side to face Ron.

“C’mere.” Ron said, patting his shoulder. Harry had already had a horrible day, and Ron felt guilty for ripping this wound open. 

It was going better than he’d expected, though. He was sure if he’d have brought it up years ago, Harry would have just told _him_ to fuck off, too.

Harry was surprised Ron was offering to practically snuggle him while discussing his attraction to men, but Ron didn’t seem to care a bit. Brotherly love and then some, he supposed.

“Don’t give me that look, Harry. You’re not my type. Your arse is pitiful and you’ve got rubbish for tits.” Ron jabbed, scratching his beard.

Harry laughed and laid his head on Ron’s chest, throwing an arm across his torso for good measure. “That beard is rubbish,” Harry retorted.

They both took a deep breath and relaxed. The epiphany that had threatened the other day had found an odd time and place to manifest. Maybe ripping it open wasn’t meant to be done alone.

“Okay, so,” Ron started, feeling like this was a bedtime story, “I think it was second year, you got new robes. And Malfoy passed us in the hall, and just said ’Nice robes, Potter’. And you said…”

“I think I told him to fuck off,” he said sheepishly, “but what was I supposed to say?”

“What would you have said if Cho had complimented your robes?” Ron asked, feeling like he was talking to one of his nieces.

“I probably would have said ‘Thanks’, and then said something nice to her,” Harry admitted. “Fuck. I did that _so much_ , Ron.”

“Yeah, you did, mate,” Ron said plaintively, wrapping his trapped arm around Harry. Poor bloke was gonna have a second breakdown when he fully realized how big an asshat he’d been to a lot of decent men.

Ron gave him a squeeze after he heard a sniffle. “What am I even supposed to _do_ , though?”

“Well, I suppose you could tell people. Or show people. I dunno, send Stephen an owl. And then sit back and be surprised when nothing interesting happens.”

“Yeah, but people expect…” Harry trailed off, not really knowing how to finish that thought.

“People expect what? Harry Potter, Future Head Auror, lady killer?” Ron mocked.

“Well, yeah, kind of. I mean, like you’re running the store and living here at the Burrow,” Harry replied weakly.

“Har. If I were gonna grow up to meet people’s expectations, I’d be married and four kids deep by now.” 

Harry chuckled at the idea of Ron dressed as Arthur, Flooing into an office every day to do paperwork. It was less funny when _he_ realized he needed to Floo into _his_ office to do paperwork later.

“Instead, I’m experimenting with expansion charms to stage a takeover of Diagon Alley, building borderline illegal spelled charms, and tag-teaming my school crush with my best mate.”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, when you put it like that…”

Ron squeezed him tight and kissed the top of his head with a loud smack. “Come on. Want to tell the Weasley clan and watch them not give a rat’s ass?”

Harry buried his face in Ron’s shirt and inhaled deeply, soaking in the smell of the Burrow and brunch and family and home.

“Yeah, okay.”

—————————

The vellum cover felt so much like her magic, he almost wondered if it was divine providence. Except that he was all but beating her over the head with it.

“Granger,” he said sternly, “take the damn book. You’re going to need it.”

She shook her head resolutely. “No way. That thing is ancient, and I’m not trained to handle texts like that.” 

It had to be hundreds of years old, she thought. The script inside was barely comprehensible English. Merlin, though, it was gorgeous script. The margins were intricately filled in with delicate animation. Hell, the artwork alone was probably as informative as the text.

He watched her cram clothing and books together in her rucksack, and did briefly wonder if she’d beat the shit out of the book. It probably dated to the mid 1700’s, if he had to guess. But he wasn’t letting her leave without it.

Her head turned to scan the room, and he snatched the Christmas tree knickers out of the bag and slid the courtship guide into the front pocket. Fair trade.

“I don’t know why you think I need to know outdated courtship practices, anyway,” she muttered, zipping up the bag. 

He suppressed a victorious smile. She’d read it when she found it at home. Hermione Granger couldn’t turn down a book. It was quite possibly his favorite thing about her.

“Don’t… don’t ‘court’ me, Malfoy. I’m neither a traditionalist nor interested.” She added an eye roll for extra apathy.

It stung a little. Maybe more than a little, he thought. It felt like she was trying to pick a fight to keep him at a distance.

Annoyance flitted across his features. “I know, Granger. You’ve made it abundantly clear,” he said tersely. “And I’ve made it just as clear that you _should_ learn about it for the sake of your ginger furball. It’s important to _him_.”

She paused, hoisting the bag to her shoulder. “Why would I court my cat?”

It was his turn to roll his eyes. “I mean Weasley. Your Kneazle is already in love with me, anyway,” he huffed. “We’re eloping to Paris. There’s a bad pun in there about fucking the wrong pussy…”

“Glad you’re mature enough to not go there, then,” she confirmed sarcastically.

“I mean, I-“ he started.

“Right, so,” she cut him off, cinching the straps on her bag. “How do you want me to get a hold of you next month?”

“I…” His lips halted, the reality of their arrangement slapping him in the face. “I guess, just Apparate in when you want to. I’ll be here.”

“Great. Thanks,” she said, clipped, and walked to the door. She turned when she reached the threshold, and he walked toward her, assuming she was waiting for a proper sending off. Instead, she said cheerily, “See you then,” and left.

The door clicked behind her, and he stared at it. _Thanks. See you then._ Like he’d just made an appointment for robe fittings.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. There was no one to hear it, anyway.

Doubt brewed, heavy in his chest. Not even a kiss goodbye? Had he done something to make her leave so abruptly? Was it the book? Had he done something in bed she didn’t like? Was he just entirely off-base in thinking she’d enjoyed his company at all?

His nostrils flared, and he realized he was breathing too quickly. He was tempted to run after her and ask, but long-practiced standoffishness got the better of him. Malfoys don’t give chase.

He sat down at the table and took a deep breath, pulling her knickers out of his pocket. No, she’d enjoyed being with him. He had literal evidence of it.

Butter-soft vellum skated through his wards, and he flinched. She’d wasted no time getting to the edge of the property.

Salazar’s stone heart, that was a cold exit. Even Pansy kissed him goodbye and told him she loved him, platonically, after the odd drunken roll in the hay. And he’d only ever been an experiment, duty, or last resort for her.

Regret gnawed at him as he picked at the last muffin. He’d shared entirely too much with her. The Sorting Hat, Ernie, his juvenile obsession with her hips, the dream. _That fucking dream._

Ugh, she’d flat-out told him she didn’t want to spend the night, or snuggle, or make love. She’d absolutely told him she wanted to fuck and leave, and he’d responded by begging her to stay and pouring his fucking guts out. No wonder she left in such a hurry. Stupid.

Maybe she wouldn’t show up next month. And maybe he’d burn these silly damn knickers.

—————————

_Find the moral high ground and defend it._

Harry was facing an ethical dilemma. And an underwhelming sandwich at his desk. On his day off. On a Sunday.

After telling the Weasley clan he sometimes fancied men, which had gone over with all the aplomb of announcing he’d gotten new shoelaces, he and Ron had gone back outside to discuss The Malfoy Situation. 

The only follow-up to his announcement had been Molly telling him to bring whoever he wanted to the Burrow for dinner any time. Come to think of it, new shoelaces would have actually been a bigger topic of conversation.

But, The Malfoy Situation. Ron had agreed that really, since he didn’t know what he was getting into, focusing on the issues he _could_ identify were more worthy of his time than speculation. They’d spent the entire drive back to the Burrow the other day criticizing Malfoy’s living conditions.

He’d really made the best of the situation the Ministry had put him in after confiscating his family home. An unheated, blasted-out mineshaft with weathered antiques was a far cry from civilized. And far from ethical on the Ministry’s end. 

The seed of intervention had been planted when he’d used the loo, only to find Malfoy’s description of “rustic” to be inadequate. He’d opted to piss outside. Which he assumed Malfoy did, too.

There was no paper trail Harry could find that led him to the name of the administrator who’d decided Malfoy’s property should be warded against _all_ magic. Convicted wizards on parole were usually allowed wandless magic in their own homes. Few wizards besides himself could do damage without a wand, anyway.

He’d brought it up to Robards, who hadn’t given a sliver of a fuck about it.

So, in absence of a higher authority, and with Ron presiding, Harry had decreed himself the arbitrator of Malfoy’s living conditions. As it currently stood, Azkaban was probably more comfortable in winter.

Simple household magic seemed ethical. Cleaning spells, cooking charms, light, heat, food, water. Those felt implicitly moralistic.

Sure, Malfoy probably _could_ Scourgify his way to a hostile takeover of Truro, but giving him the benefit of the doubt also seemed honorable.

Wandering through the DMLE charms stockroom was unexpectedly fun. Each wooden coin was loaded with a single-use charm. It was like Christmas shopping, but with the knowledge that each and every bauble he threw in the bag would be immensely appreciated. Like giving sweets to children. Hm. Maybe actual sweets would be worth a stop. 

No, don’t bring the man chocolates, he thought to himself. Might as well buy him flowers if you buy him chocolates.

The little discs clunked satisfyingly together in the drawstring bag. After he figured out how to change the Ministry ward, Malfoy would be able to use them wandlessley.

Atmospheric, hot air, and drought charms for the damp cold. Cleaning, light, ice, and fire-making charms for the kitchen. _Aguamentis_ for that whole bathroom situation.

A handful of _Bombardas_ and accompanying Feather-lights found their way in the bag. Blasting larger rooms and floating the rubble out sounded harmless to the wider world. Fun, too.

And an _oculus reparo_ in case Malfoy sat on his glasses, Harry thought, smiling. That’s one he’d used uncountable times.

There, he thought. Enough to make a hovel a home.

He checked the ward bracelet, wondering if Hermione was still there. The possibility of being alone with Malfoy made him more nervous than interrupting Hermione’s visit. 

He was a little disappointed in himself that he’d literally rather walk in on Malfoy fucking Hermione than simply be alone with the man, but… baby steps.

—————————————

“You’re a sick cunt, you know that, Matilda?” Malfoy said, watching the eagle gulping down bites of old egg salad. “That is just…beyond the pale.”

She’d arrived with a red envelope in a tube secured to her back. Official correspondence, then.

The eagle held a crust of sandwich in her beak and alit on the top of the chair in front of him, nearly eye-to-eye. She quirked her head expectantly.

“No. Seriously. Least sexy offering ever,” he said, dismissing her offer. She responded by extending and curling her wings forward, bobbing.

“Fine,” he grumped, taking the crust in his lips. She preened, satisfied.

“But I’m not swallowing,” he mumbled around it and waited. “This is where you say ‘That’s what she said’.”

She blinked at him and cocked her head. “Get out. Fucking cannibal.”’

He waited till she was clear of the windowsill before he took the crust out of his mouth and threw it back in the basket. Damned pushy bird.

He snatched the envelope off the table. Ignoring the sweat on his palms, he popped the seal and pulled out a single paper.

He was hereby summoned to attend the Wizengamot Committee on Wizard Rights on September 30th. It didn’t say if he needed to present anything, or testify, or what his presence would accomplish. 

Luckily, his Healing of criminals wasn’t actually illegal. Using Blood Magic to do it would be Azkaban-worthy if they had evidence. So far as they knew, he’d used a wand to heal Death Eaters. It still didn’t look good to the Wizengamot, and he wasn’t eager for their scrutiny.

But this was supposed to be the big meeting. The one where they decided whether Lucius and Narcissa were sub-par parents or abusive criminals. This committee got to decide whether or not they rotted in Azkaban or ended up roaming free next year. Maybe sooner.

Unfortunately, they hadn’t gotten their hands dirty enough in the war to be given long sentences. Too posh for drudgery, those Malfoys. 

There was one thing he could have them put away for, if he could pull it off. Lucius as the culprit, and Narcissa for the cover-up.

 _Liore._ His sister.

————————————————

With a lurch and a gastric roil, she popped into her living room, almost exactly where she’d intended to. Another two feet to the left, and she’d have landed on the couch, but it was still an impressive jump.

Crookshanks came running round the corner to flop pitifully in front of his food bowl. To his dismay, she filled it with kibble and went to the front entrance to check her post box.

Her neighbor’s box was still a charred mess. Timidly, she examined the ceiling for security cameras. Finding none, she sighed and opened hers. She really should have checked for cameras before using her wand the other day. Yesterday? Had that really just been yesterday morning that she’d opened the envelope with the gorgeous flowering vines and jarring penmanship?

Gods, what a busy, wonderful, exhausting, sexually gratifying weekend. Much more satisfying than her best bar hopping and house party prowling had been in Perth.

Why was that, though? Was there something more inherently satiating about wizards compared to Muggles? Coincidence? Luck, maybe, that the three of them just happened to be rather complementary in bed?

Whatever it was, thinking about it for too long was bound to have consequences. She’d nearly ended up naked with Malfoy for the fourth time that morning over a damned book. A hasty retreat had been called for. 

It definitely wasn’t because she’d felt herself getting comfortable, she thought, climbing the stairs to her flat. No, his stone floors and towering bookcases and enormous bed weren’t welcoming, not when she had… She swung the door open to her flat. This.

Godric’s gullet, it was even more boring than Harry’s flat. Sighing, she set the letters down and looked around. It had felt so much homier when they’d all been over for curry. Was that what was lacking? Just… people? Perhaps.

A faint vibration steadily shook the floor, and she paused, trying to find the source. Had that damned dishwasher started of its own accord? No, this was quieter. And closer.

And it was very happy and rubbing its purring orange head all over her rucksack. She might as well have packed the bag with catnip, she thought. Crookshanks was throwing himself on the bag with the kind of reckless abandon only feline substance abuse could warrant.

“You traitor,” she accused. “You’d better not be planning a Parisian elopement, too.”

Against his protests, she hoisted the bag onto the kitchen table and began unpacking. Not ready to admit defeat, he hopped onto the table to scrutinize this unpacking.

“You really aren’t a cat, are you?” she asked, more to herself.

Crookshanks replied by scraping his face across the front pocket of the rucksack as hard as his little body could push, nearly losing his footing in the attempt. The cat hadn’t been interested in the bag when she packed it yesterday.

Taking out the embarrassing handful of knickers and throwing them in the wash, she removed the textbook and notes she’d mistakenly thought she’d have time to study. Something small and heavy weighed down the front of the otherwise empty bag.

Unzipping the front pocket, she had to pull Crookshanks back by the scruff to keep him from diving in face first.

“That bastard,” she whispered, drawing a slim, vellum-bound primer from the pocket. 

Why was he so insistent she take a courting guide and use it to woo Ron? She already had Ron. Ron was very much hers in a way Harry and Malfoy weren’t. 

_Oh. Shit._

Her gut sank at the realization. Ron probably had expectations the other two didn’t. Gods below, the fact that Malfoy realized it before she did was mortifying.

Images of herself barefoot and pregnant in the Burrow came unbidden, and she cringed. Maybe the courting customs weren’t necessarily commitment-related. Plying Crookshanks away from the book with a few treats, she sat down to peruse it.

A thorough index was unexpected in a text this old, but very much welcome. Flower arrangements and their meanings, decoding formal dances, home furnishings and their significances. So many of these had to do with the hidden meanings behind everyday objects. It was tedious.

 _Hairstyles and Hints_ caught her eye. If there was one inherently bold thing about her, it was her hair. According to this, _the untamed curls of a lusty maiden cry out for the hands of a lover_. Well, that wasn’t inaccurate, she mused.

 _Braiding of the mane portends merger of all for the nonce_.

 _”Can we have you, ‘Mione?”_ slicked through her memory. Along with the feel of Ron’s hands in her hair and him hard against her, Harry leaning invitingly back on her couch. Anxiety and desire made her breath hitch. Maybe it was a coincidence.

She skimmed, selecting a section titled _Breads and Beds_. Bread seemed like an oddly specific choice.

_…and stolen cakes a wedded witch makes._

_”Goldilocks would have fared differently if she’d have stolen muffins.”_

_…and if fault he take, her bread he flake…_

She thought back to the shredded pile of naan Ron had wasted the other night. Maybe it hadn’t just been a way to occupy his hands. 

If Ron and Malfoy had both been raised with these customs, then they’d been subtly communicating without her or Harry knowing. Holy hell.

Ron had shredded that naan and braided her hair as a direct insult to Malfoy. A coded _I hate you, we both fucked her when your back was turned._

She’d never considered Ron capable of scheming at that level before. Shit, what else wasn’t she picking up on?

A huff of frustration startled Crookshanks, who had been content as a book holder on the table. He jumped up, and she lost her page. Thoroughly unnerved by the implications in this book so far, she chose random pages and random passages, hoping to find ridiculous rubbish to invalidate the entire text.

 _Matting by a mother piled, an offer, then, to raise the child_

Okay, that was definitely an obscure one. Some kind of wedding thing? Or adoption?

She shut the book and reopened it to a new page, placing a finger at random.

 _His and his and his but hers, light the hearth, open shutters._ Nonsense.

Close. Open. Another random line.

 _The wildest witch, which from which, she may bewitch, and he she chooses, be not the matter lest she itch_.

Nonsense again. Possibly a hygiene reference?

One last page, and then she was giving up on this rubbbish.

_Be wary please, O daughter mine,  
of silken skirts and ribbons fine.  
Of gems and furs,  
of men and curs.  
Run, then child,  
from ghouls and beasts and angry wraiths.  
Be then wild,  
shun gold and feasts and those Bad Faiths._

Also nonsense. Though rather odd, having come from the Malfoy archives.

A tap at the window was a welcome distraction. Crookshanks agreed, skittering over the table to hurtle across the living room, investigation already underway.

A small owl hissed a very mighty hiss at the cat, who startled back and hid under the couch.

“So fearsome, Crooks,” she chided him. The owl had a small envelope with a Ministry seal, and her gut clenched.

“Thank you,” she cooed, patting the owl in full view of a furious cat.

The owl departed with a defiant hoot, and she closed the window. Crookshanks ventured out from under the couch with something in his mouth. Something silver and made of lace.

“Oh, Merlin’s tits, Crooks!” she shouted. “Give me those!”

Excited by this new game of chase, he took off down the hall, knickers and all.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Red-and-Goldilocks

Flaked bread,  
So I careful tread.  
Distant lure of her bed.

Stolen cake,  
a wedded witch make,  
but still leaves much to slake.

Light the hearth,  
Family by gift or birth,  
I think I’ve found my place on Earth.

DLM 2008 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	12. Cock, Paper, Scissors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut.  
> The Golden Trio lose their clothes again. Damned Gryffindors.
> 
> Malfoy makes some excellent points about Harry's sex life.  
> Harry has a variety of feelings about this.  
> Mostly panicky sexy feelings.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Stag Party

I know you fucking want me,  
Whether _you_ know it or not.  
Your body’s desperate plea.

Is that all you’ve got?  
Fine, then. Let’s dance.  
Denial’s best served hot.

DLM 2007 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

Malfoy’s wards weren’t responding to his tapping, and Harry was starting to get worried. Maybe Malfoy was gone? But the bracelet hadn’t alerted him to anyone crossing the wards since Hermione had crossed that morning. 

The sun was setting, and he was getting ready to leave. The open field was starkly beautiful in the askance red-yellow light. The sandy soil and scattered stones reflected a rosy glow and threw long shadows.

Maybe they were just really going at it in there, and he was ignoring his wards? Malfoy, pale but flushed, beneath Hermione. A rush of blood flow through his hips accompanied that thought.

The bracelet hummed gently and text scrolled at the same time Malfoy stepped out onto the path in front of Harry.

“Sorry,” he drawled. “I was working on something.”

He was clad in black and gray pajama pants. It took Harry several moments to realize Malfoy was shirtless in the cool night air. His tattooed arm, criss-crossed scars, and a truly spectacular bite mark on his shoulder broke up the expanse of his chest.

The pufferfish threatened to return, but Harry focused on Ron’s reassurances at brunch.

“Oh, right,” Harry blurted. “I just wanted to give you this.” He thrust the bag out awkwardly. Eyeing it suspiciously, Malfoy accepted it, weighing it in his hands. Realization bloomed slowly across his face.

“Potter, why did you just hand me several years worth of charms? Does Eira have Robards over a desk somewhere?” He chuckled to himself.

“Who?” Harry asked, rather confused. “No, those are from me, not Robards.”

Malfoy examined him, eyes coming to rest on the bracelet. Harry’s gaze had settled on the wad of gauze between the other man’s fingers, and the small knife held casually between two fingers. He half-expected him to bring it to his lips and take a long drag from it.

“Why…” Malfoy gulped. “Why are you wearing that?” The bag of charms almost hid the fine trembling in his hand. Harry watched as the faint blush drained from Malfoy’s cheeks. He held the bag delicately, touching it as little as possible.

“Uhm, long story, kind of,” Harry stammered. 

He honestly hadn’t thought about how Malfoy would feel about the reassignment. Merlin, what would that be like to answer to your own classmate and school nemesis? And one who’d vociferously rejected your advances for years? Shit. Maybe he should have told Robards about that. But he’d thought it was one-sided till just this morning.

“Oh,” Malfoy croaked. “Well, you can tell me while I finish up. It’s rather time-sensitive.”

“I can just come back tom-“ Harry started. He really didn’t want to stay and talk to Malfoy. Especially not if the “time-sensitive” task was fucking Hermione, whom he assumed was inside.

“Wait there. I wanted to talk to you about something, anyway. And I can’t let you in till I fix the outside ward,” he instructed, disappearing back through. Harry’s bracelet hummed and scrolled Malfoy’s name.

—————————

The picture of The Chosen Cock, as she was calling it, on her laptop was very distracting. It had a habit of taking up the whole screen while she was trying very hard to type up an essay. And then it just sat there, daring her.

Was it too greedy to ask him and Ron to come over again tonight? If it _was_ greedy, did she care? She shifted in her chair, arousal making itself known.

**Busy tonight?**

_Nope.  
Your flat’s closest to me._

**Ok. 8:30?**

_Sounds good.  
Want me to get a hold of Ron?_

**I’ll send an owl. It’ll make it in time.**

_See you tonight, greedy witch._

**Thank you. Really.**

_My pleasure.  
Really._

Godric, it was almost too easy. And _good_. She felt spoiled in the absolute best way, and set about putting clean sheets on the bed.

—————————

An hour later, Harry’s ears were buzzing with the obnoxious hum of Blood Magic, his cheeks were on fire with embarrassment, and his body couldn’t decide if an erection or choking to death on his own tongue was a better idea.

He didn’t much appreciate being lectured by Malfoy on the importance of lube, but awkwardness kept him silent. Watching Malfoy mixing batches of sea water and blood and flicking it off a small knife to reinforce his wards was also too interesting to interrupt.

“I’m sure she enjoyed it at the time, Potter, but I don’t think she’s the type to take a night off to recoup,” he’d admonished.

Sure enough, his mobile buzzed with a message from her not minutes later. He hadn’t bothered telling Malfoy. Very few witches or wizards used them. Even fewer made his mobile break out in the signature measures of _Flight of the Valkyries_. Malfoy chuckled, and they shared an awkward, knowing smile.

“You’ve been summoned by the witch with the itch,” Malfoy jabbed. “Good luck.”

“Uhm, thanks?” Harry replied, not really sure how to respond to that.

It turned out that Hermione had actually been gone for hours, which begged the question of when she’d arrived. It also became obvious that Malfoy had spent a significant amount of time with her, and didn’t seem pleased with the experience.

Walking, dipping the knife in the pitcher, flicking it, whispering incantations, and starting the process over every few feet was mind-numbing but relaxing, and they fell into a groove.

Harry told him a short synopsis of his meeting with Robards that morning, and stressed how many excuses he’d given Robards about his unfitness for this case. Malfoy nodded, mid-phrase, seeming to appreciate that Harry hadn’t jumped at his chance to be his new jailer.

“I haven’t really looked through the mountains of files or Pensieve vials,” Harry said, finally broaching the subject. “But most of it relates to charges you brought against your parents, right?”

Malfoy finished a verse and nodded again, stepped forward and dipped the knife. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it, flicked the knife, and started the spell.

“I guess,” Harry said, hesitating. “I want to know what _you_ want me to know.”

Malfoy’s lips kept moving, but his eyebrows raised in interest. Harry took that as encouragement. _Moral high ground_ , he told himself.

“Like, people, even people I’m close to, may know the facts about my life before Hogwarts,” Harry explained. “But having me dump it all in vials and leaving them in someone’s office would drive me absolutely mad.” 

He shuddered, rubbing the goosebumps on his arms. The wizard community liked to use his early childhood as part of a rags to riches narrative, but few people, maybe not even Ron or Hermione, could really understand it. 

Longbottom was one of the few people he’d discussed it with. Neve’s grandmother and the Dursleys had a bit in common.

Malfoy’s lips stilled, and he stepped forward. He mouth was a tight line as he dipped the knife, thinking. “I believe we understand each other quite well, then, Potter,” he confirmed, beginning another incantation.

Harry waited, knowing the tightness around Malfoy’s eyes meant he was still formulating a response. That was fine. 

In some ways, he was grateful that the cupboard and his mother’s family practically existed in another world. In other ways, it felt like he’d made it all up, because there was no one else to tell him it was real. It was probably the same way for Malfoy, he thought. 

“Did you ever wish you had a sibling so somebody could tell you that shit really did happen? That you’re not crazy?” Harry blurted out, immediately regretting it. “Sorry. Don’t answer that. I just… Sorry.”

Malfoy dipped the knife and stepped away from Harry, brow furrowed. “Every day,” he admitted. “And I guess, I did have an older sister, but she was… stillborn. But yeah, I do think about what that would have been like.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Malfoy started and completed yet another incantation. Given the arc they’d walked and taking into account that he’d said there were six layers of wards, he estimated Malfoy had spent months of his life doing this. It was appalling, but impressive.

“Can… can I ask you about your evening with Granger?” Malfoy asked, no preamble, ample trepedation.

“Uhm… I guess,” Harry replied. He didn’t want another lecture on lubrication and vaginal abrasion.

“Did she just… up and leave when she was done?” Malfoy inquired, stepping forward.

“I think so.” Harry shrugged and stepped up alongside him.

“You _think _so?” He started mumbling the spell again.__

__“I left first. I was late,” he said, distracted by the quickly-setting sun. “I had a date. So I Flooed out as soon as I was dressed. She left maybe fifteen minutes later. Ministry-registered Floo. Keeps a log.”_ _

__“Wow,” Malfoy exhaled, “I mean, good on you, I guess, but wow.”_ _

__“Eh. In retrospect, it wasn’t worth it.” Harry shrugged again. “Ever have sex so boring you wish you’d have stayed home and gone to bed early?”_ _

__“Literally never.” Malfoy stepped forward._ _

__Grateful he didn’t look back for a reaction, Harry lingered behind for a few moments._ _

__“Oh… The whole… Bacchanalia thing, even?” Harry was mildly shocked that anyone could be forced to have sex with a cadre of women and none of them turn out to be disappointing._ _

__“No, we generally had all night to figure each other out. And on the rare occasion it wasn’t particularly to my tastes, I got to go home to Magnus,” he said, chewing his lip. “And the brief description you got in Ron’s car was probably misleading. I knew all of the women save a few. Hell, _you_ know most of them. And I’d already been with the majority of them at some point.”_ _

__Harry hesitated in catching up. It was nearly dark, but maybe Malfoy hadn’t noticed. His night vision seemed to be unusually good. He thought about Malfoy’s admission. Maybe his date wouldn’t have been a dud if he’d spent a whole night experimenting with her instead of getting roaring drunk and fumbling their way home._ _

__Hm, he might be onto something. Maybe what had made Hermione so much better was that they’d said what they wanted. He wanted her to strip slowly. She wanted him to come before sex. He wanted to be careful. She wanted him to trust her on that. And then she’d wanted him to fuck her screaming into the bed. And it turned out he wanted that, too._ _

__

__

__And _there_ was the awkward erection that had been threatening to break through. Great, he thought, trying to shift his trousers with his hand in his pockets._ _

__“But anyway, Potter,” Malfoy said, a hint of apprehension, yards ahead of him. “The leaving, is that a Muggle thing? Is that just how it goes?”_ _

__“No, not at all,” Harry said reassuringly, catching up with him. “Coincidence, probably, me and her. It’s not… ideal.”_ _

__“Well,” Malfoy exhaled, “I guess I won’t take it personally.”_ _

__“Not your style, I take it?” Harry waited patiently while Malfoy finished yet another verse. This really was the most monotonous thing he’d ever tagged along to. More repetitive than a vague memory he had of a Catholic church and a rosary._ _

__“No,” Malfoy chuckled, “not at all.”_ _

__—————————_ _

__Hermione pencilled the Committee meeting in her planner for September 30th. The summons hadn’t said what the Wizengamot Committee on Wizard Rights actually did. Or who was on it. Or even if _she_ was on it. She assumed not. Interns didn’t warrant Committee seats. Then again, she was Hermione Granger._ _

__Not sure who to ask, she resolved to see if Harry knew. Maybe there was someone at the Ministry she could get details from. Maybe an agenda. Maybe a mission statement. It was exciting in the most tedious of ways._ _

__—————————_ _

__He set the pitcher and knife down and dropped to one knee, palm against the ground._ _

__“Once again, I must ask you, O Auror mine, how law-abiding are you?” Malfoy smirked weakly._ _

__“As far as I can tell, I am your end all, be all of law enforcement,” Harry said with a grin. “So have at it.”_ _

__“Careful, Potter,” he cautioned, smiling, sinking into a trance of dextrous movements and profoundly illegal sorcery._ _

__Again, hot, suffocating, pinpricks surrounded Harry’s face, traveling down his throat as he breathed. He held his breath against the onslaught. Glancing at Malfoy in alarm, he watched as he made a new cut between his fingers, cupping a few drops in his palm. Like it had at the Burrow, the swarming feeling condensed into Malfoy’s hand, leaving Harry free to breathe._ _

__This magic was different from what he’d done with Ron, though. Rather than build it up and shove it into something, Malfoy rubbed his palms together, spreading the blood between them. Pressing one palm to the end of the line he’d been casting, he held the other upraised in offering to the darkened sky._ _

__A whispery, feather-light chill emanated from the ground straight upward. A jolt ran through Harry, and the air felt clear. But Malfoy had disappeared._ _

__Spinning in a circle, all Harry could see was the road out in the distance. An unexpectedly clean palm shot through from nowhere, body invisible. Palm up, beckoning._ _

__Harry grasped it, and was pulled through. Malfoy was still on one knee, cheeks pink, and looking downright exhilarated._ _

__“Bit dramatic,” Harry scolded, uncomfortable with Malfoy’s grip on his hand._ _

__Rather than let go, Malfoy raised Harry’s knuckles to his mouth, grazing up his fingers, culminating in a soft press of lips against the back of his hand._ _

__An involuntary hum that turned into a quiet moan escaped Harry’s throat, but he quelled the urge to rip his hand away from Malfoy. Gods, the man’s lips were so soft. And warm. Malfoy’s breath on the back of his hand came fast and shallow. He stood, keeping Harry’s hand clasped._ _

__“Thank you, Potter,” he said, straightening and releasing Harry’s hand. “Robards would probably have locked me up for that.”_ _

__“Oh,” Harry said, taking a deep breath. “I think he knows more about blood wards than you’d expect.”_ _

__Malfoy dusted his knee off. “Huh,” he sighed absently. “Want to guess what dented my wards?”_ _

__Harry briefly wondered if that was a euphemism for something, but let it go. It didn’t matter if it was, after all._ _

__“Uhm…. An augury in a bad mood?” Harry ventured._ _

__Malfoy frowned in disappointment, “No, _Senior Auror Potter_ , my wards aren’t vulnerable to random birds. It was an owl carrying five Crucios and an Avada. In that order. On some kind of silver-threaded parchment.”_ _

__Harry felt sick. The Ministry ward wouldn’t have cancelled all of that out._ _

__Malfoy turned to walk to his front door, and Harry followed. That lineup of Unforgivables, if it had landed, would be enough to keep someone in agony for weeks, then kill them. Merlin Almighty, no wonder he put so much effort into his wards and taking down owls._ _

__They passed through the inner Ministry ward, and Harry’s bracelet warmed as the link secured._ _

__“Hang on,” he said, touching Malfoy’s elbow and surprising himself. “I think I can change the Ministry’s ward restrictions. If it works, you should be able to do some wandless magic.”_ _

__Malfoy’s eyes widened. His palms scrubbed against his trousers as he watched Potter, wary of the offer. He’d accepted that Potter was in charge of his case from an administrative perspective, but the reality of him having actual control over his daily life hadn’t yet hit home. It was unsettling, but also oddly exciting. He'd already proved more amenable than Robards._ _

__Harry’s face screwed up in concentration as his magic flowed into the barrier. Gods, he thought, this was a mother fucker of a ward. It had far more signatures in it than just Robards. More than the Auror Division in its entirety, in fact._ _

__“Did the whole fucking Wizengamot weave this?” He asked, trying to keep the strain from his voice._ _

__“Uhm… yes,” Malfoy admitted sheepishly. “Death Eater, remember?”_ _

__“Oh,” Harry panted. If ever there had been a reason to endure being Harry Fucking Potter, Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, claiming this ward was one of them._ _

__Harry drew his wand and focused on each of the dozens of magical signatures in turn, snuffing them out one by one and replacing them with his own. His eyes closed as he focuses, time passing with little meaning as he worked. Absently, he was aware of the sweat running down his temples, but a cool hand wiped it away._ _

__After the first few marks were extinguished, the others turned toward him en masse, snarling and burning. Merlin’s tits, if this were what Malfoy would have to face as retribution for using magic, they might as well just kill him on sight._ _

__Each magical imprint required dissection and disposal, not dissimilar to unraveling curses. Silently, he was thankful to the required but tedious Curse Breaker introduction classes._ _

__The last Wizengamot imprint burned out, and he extended a hand to Malfoy, who was watching, open-mouthed. With a start, he complied, placing his hand in Harry’s._ _

__Cautiously, Harry pulled Malfoy’s signature into the ward; skimming feathers and the gut-drop sensation of falling. Odd signature, he mused. Visceral. Somewhat exhilarating._ _

__He sealed it in with his own, noting the unusually smooth impression of his usual broken glass and electricity. Their marks combined, feathers and sharp edges melding, lightning and vertigo balancing, and the ward stabilized with a hardening crackle._ _

__“Fuck, Potter,” Malfoy hissed, hand still clasped with Harry’s. It was so like Blood Magic, he didn’t bother trying to hide his arousal. The instinct to thank him bodily was overwhelming._ _

__Salazar’s sacrosanct snatch. He’d never been so desperate to make Harry Potter scream his name. But, no, he reminded himself. Potter wasn’t interested. Potter had never been interested._ _

__He drew his hand from Harry’s, diverting it from its path to his throbbing length to run through his hair instead. Throat catching, he swallowed deeply and exhaled a long breath. Anything to keep his lips off Potter’s._ _

__Harry sat down abruptly, suddenly dizzy. That had been the best fight he’d had in years. Voldemort had had nothing on the combined force of the Wizengamot. Shit. He wanted to chase it with…something. Something a lot more physical._ _

__Looking up, Harry saw Malfoy standing over him, observing. The bulge in his trousers was obvious, and Harry realized with a lurch what he wanted._ _

__The memory of Malfoy’s lips lingering on his fingers moments ago threw itself through his mind, culminating in the imagined sensation of those lips running their way down his body. Gods, that would feel good. And Malfoy had wanted him, Ron had said. Once upon a time. Maybe he still did?__

__

__

__Malfoy knelt down in front of him, color high, lips swollen, and braced a hand on the sandy ground between Harry and the ward. His breathing was shallow, grey eyes wide._ _

__Harry’s ward bracelet hummed, alerting him to Malfoy’s contact with the barrier. The notification shook him loose. _Find the moral high ground and defend it._ _ _

__Godric, he couldn’t have this. They couldn’t have this. For so many reasons._ _

__Malfoy glanced down at Harry’s wrist, and his face fell, reality sinking in. He sighed, looking off into the darkness beyond the ward, and stood. He extended a hand down to Harry, who took it._ _

__Pulling him up to standing, Malfoy laid another, more chaste kiss on Harry’s knuckles. A disappointing dilution of the earlier affection._ _

__“Tea, Potter?” he offered softly._ _

__“I…” Harry whispered. “I have to…”_ _

__Malfoy’s face hardened into elegant disdain, and he chastised himself as he gently released Potter’s hand. Of course he wasn’t staying._ _

__“Right,” Malfoy sighed. “Best not keep her waiting, then.”_ _

__He nodded tersely, stepped through the ward, and disappeared with a pop._ _

__—————————————_ _

__It was awkward being in her apartment alone, Harry thought. He’d just heard her turn the shower on after he Apparated in, and didn’t think she knew he was there. The temptation to snoop was overwhelming, but Aurors don’t snoop. They investigate._ _

__A Ministry envelope lay open on the kitchen table, and he just happened to read it. It seemed Hermione had also been summoned to attend the Wizengamot Committee on Wizard Rights on September 30th. His envelope had floated into his office that morning while he’d been glaring at his sandwich. Godric, it had been a long day._ _

__Her letter didn’t say anything at all about why she was being required to attend, or inform her what the meeting was about. He hadn’t expected details in his, because he was the lone Auror overseeing the would-be plaintiff. Hermione didn’t know about all the charges Malfoy had accused his parents of. He’d have to fill her in himself, he assumed._ _

___A loud pop behind him made him squeak and slam the papers back to their original positions._ _ _

__

__

__“Hey, Har,” Ron chirped, coming in for a hug. “I didn’t have time to owl her back. Hope she’s up for teamwork.”_ _

__Harry hugged Ron back, chuckling. “She just left Malfoy’s this morning. Then texted me and owled you. I don’t think we should underestimate her.”_ _

__Ron whistled low. “And you the night before, right?” He pulled an apple out of his pocket and took a bite. The orchard at the Burrow was going bonkers right now, if anyone cared to look. They did not._ _

__“Yeah,” Harry said with a nod. “And… none too gently. Per request. I got a lecture from Malfoy about it today.”_ _

__“You did not.” Ron said in disbelief, chewing slowly._ _

__Harry nodded again, resigned. “I most certainly did. Something about her not being the type to take a night off to recoup.”_ _

__“Well.” Ron shrugged, swallowing a bite of apple. “He’s not wrong. Witch with the itch.”_ _

__Harry frowned. Malfoy had said almost the exact same thing. Was that a saying or something? Ron took another bite and squirreled it away in his cheek. “How’d things go with Malfoy?”_ _

__“Good.” Harry kicked his shoes off and started toward the bedroom. Ron followed. “I brought scads of household charms and modified his wards so he can do wandless magic.”_ _

__Ron chewed thoughtfully, shutting the bedroom door behind them. “You know he’s particularly good at that, right?”_ _

__“Yeah, I know,” Harry admitted. “He’s still got the Trace on him, so I’ll know if he does anything big.”_ _

__Ron nibbled around the apple core. “How’d it go with him and… everything?”_ _

__“Good,” Harry chirped, flopping back on the bed, suddenly tired. “I think he picked up on it, though. He kissed my hand. Like, kind of formally, but still.”_ _

__“Eh, Manor manners.” Ron muttered, chucking the apple core in the bin and pulling a deck of cards out of his jacket._ _

__“Twice.” Harry offered suspiciously._ _

__“Hmm,” Ron hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re right. Good luck sussing out what to do about that, Ministry-wise.”_ _

__“Yeah,” he replied glumly. “No idea what to do there.”_ _

__“Well,” Ron said, dealing hands. “Stephen would be a better idea. Personal opinion.”_ _

__Harry sighed deeply and picked up his cards. “Yeah, I guess so. Maybe I’ll send him an owl.”_ _

__——————————_ _

__As she was wrapping her hair in a towel, she heard a pop of Apparition. Not knowing which of them it was, or possibly both, was more exciting than she’d expected._ _

__It could be serious fun if she gave all three of them permission to just show up unannounced for sex. But, more likely, they’d end up wandering in for dinner on days she didn’t really want them. She’d seen them eat. Pass._ _

__“Out in a minute!” she hollered from the bathroom. She smoothed a new lavender lotion up her legs, stopping shy of the crease near her sex. The low rumble of male voices trickled in around the bathroom door. She thought about wrapping a second towel around herself for modesty, but decided against it. One less towel to wash._ _

__The cool air hit her skin, and goosebumps rose. The hall outside the bathroom was empty. As was the kitchen, where she’d expected to find them raiding her refrigerator. The living room was also bereft of male company. Odd._ _

__Dim golden light filtered from around her bedroom door, as did the timbre of serious conversation. The temptation to linger in the hall and listen pulled her to the edge of the door._ _

__“No, it’s your turn,” said Ron._ _

__“I went first last time,” countered Harry._ _

__“I don’t mind going second.” Ron replied._ _

__“Of course you don’t. It’s always easier to be second.”_ _

__“Fine, I’ll go first. But you owe me one, mate.”_ _

__“Do not.”_ _

__The idea that they would bicker over her had never occurred. Did they have some sort of point system and a calendar? The mental image made her grin._ _

__Silently, she swung the door in to find them on her bed… playing cards._ _

__“Hey, ‘Mione!” Ron greeted._ _

__“How’s our favorite barrister?” Harry asked._ _

__“She’s years away from being a barrister, and she’s a little disappointed to be the only naked one in the room.” They looked incredibly guilty in the yellow glow of the small bedside lamp._ _

__Ron hopped up, shucked off a Harpies t-shirt, and went to work on his trousers._ _

__She’d always loved the freckles across his back and shoulders. The build underneath them was rather nice, as well. He kicked off his trousers to reveal a pair of tight, slick, navy blue briefs. Bikini briefs? Those looked new, and they very much needed her lips on them._ _

__Not to be outdone, Harry whipped a sweatshirt and whatever else he had on under it off over his head so quickly, she didn’t even notice what he’d been wearing. He was suddenly shirtless and nearly trouserless in the time it took her to turn her head._ _

__Circe’s soaking slit, if they could bottle and sell Auror training regimens…_ _

__The dim light cast shadows in the hollows and grooves of his arms and chest as he turned to throw his shirts in the corner. His abdomen rippled with muscle as he bent his head down to unclasp his trousers, a neat line of dark hair obscuring the lowest movement._ _

__Recollection of her lips kissing down that path made her body ache, low and tight. Tatty light blue cotton boxers brought her back to the present._ _

__“Really wore your finest there, Har,” snarked Ron._ _

__“Least I’m not wearing a Speedo,” retorted Harry._ _

__“I don’t know what a Speedo is, but it sounds sporty, so thank you,” Ron said indignantly._ _

__Harry kicked into boxer a corner with the rest of his clothes. “Better?” He looked at them in turn._ _

__“Much,” said Hermione. “Ron, keep yours on.” She quietly cast a contraception charm, reminding herself to ask Malfoy how to cast the other one._ _

__Propped up on pillows, she reclined in the middle of her bed. Both men nestled in alongside her, heads on her shoulders, their free hands each tracing distinct patterns on her skin._ _

__Harry kneaded a breast and rubbed a firm line down to her hip before pausing, then slipping between her thighs. He shifted his lower body and pulled her leg open and hitched it over his. Cool air skimmed her rapidly dampening sex as he rubbed idle lines up and down the back of her thigh._ _

__Ron lightly traced his finger under the edge of her breast, causing goosebumps to cascade down her side, and both nipples to tighten into peaks. His barely-there touch skimmed down the fine raised hair on her abdomen to her thigh._ _

__So different, the two of them. A whimper escaped her lips as her thighs parted and hips lifted, begging them to touch her._ _

__Their hands each slid up an inner thigh. They both froze and looked at each other. A silent traffic negotiation began with their eyes. Hermione growled softly, frustrated at their teasing._ _

__Harry pulled his hand back and made a fist above her chest, challenging Ron. Ron brought his back up in the same._ _

__“Rock, paper, scissors, go!” they both chanted._ _

__“I hate you both so much,” Hermione grumbled._ _

__“Bah, you win,” Harry said. “You pick.”_ _

__“Winner, winner, minge for dinner!” Ron crowed._ _

__Hermione slapped him in the back of the head none too playfully._ _

__Harry snorted, “Ron, did you know that in Muggle witch lore, whatever a witch sends out, she should expect to return threefold?” He rose onto his knees next to Hermione’s head. “I’ve seen it in movies.”_ _

__“Interesting. Did _you_ know that, Hermione?” Ron inquired.__

____“I may have heard that,” she said tenuously._ _ _ _

____“Well, I’d hate to upset the laws of fictional Muggle magic,” Harry said, idly thumbing the head of his cock._ _ _ _

____Ron rose on his elbow, sliding his hand down to cup her sex. He pressed hard on her mound and she ground up against his hand, finally getting the contact she’d been waiting for._ _ _ _

____He lifted his hand a bit and brought it down hard. A solid smack and a loud yelp from Hermione filled the room._ _ _ _

____“Ron!” she gasped, reeling from the sensation of every nerve ending between her legs suddenly humming._ _ _ _

____Above her, Harry had a firm grip on his cock, his eyes dark and hungry. “Again.”_ _ _ _

____Ron gently slid his hand back down to cup her, rubbing circles more firmly. Her hips ground into him of their own accord. His hand lifted, and she held her breath. The quick slap wasn’t any less intense on the heels of the first one._ _ _ _

____Her exhale came in a gush, and she moaned. Harry’s eyebrows rose, and he leaned over to position his cock next to her mouth. Her hips moved in small circles against Ron’s palm, and delicious heat was coiling inside her. Her tongue snaked out to lick her lips before she rolled to her elbow to gently kiss the tip of Harry’s cock. His hand wound in her hair next to her scalp, urging her closer to him._ _ _ _

____The flat of Ron’s hand slid down further between her legs, picking up her slickness, and spreading it to the front of her sex. She moaned at the evidence of her own arousal and slipped Harry’s cock into her mouth._ _ _ _

____Harry gripped her hair, keeping her head still, as he watched Ron raise a hand glistening with her wetness. A sharp slap sounded, followed by a squeak, muffled by Harry’s cock gently thrusting in her mouth._ _ _ _

____His grip on her hair loosened, and she slid him into her throat._ _ _ _

____“Fuck, Hermione.” He shuddered, a sigh escaping his lips._ _ _ _

____Ron lifted himself from her side and laid on his stomach between her legs._ _ _ _

____“Auror Potter, I need to report a crime,” Ron said with mock seriousness._ _ _ _

____“What, Ron?” Harry asked, rolling his eyes._ _ _ _

____“Some dastardly wizard has jinxed the curlies right off Hermione Granger,” Ron stated, face stern._ _ _ _

____“Mm… I’ll investigate soon.” Harry hummed, head falling forward as she took the tip of his cock into the back of her mouth._ _ _ _

____“Well, you’d better be very thor-“_ _ _ _

____“Ron,” Harry interrupted. “Shut up.”_ _ _ _

____“Mm hmm.” Hermione hummed around his cock._ _ _ _

____“Fine.” Ron harrumphed. “Do my own investigation.”_ _ _ _

____Hermione slid Harry’s length slowly back into her mouth, pressing the head against the roof of her mouth as she moved. A low groan escaped him, and she gasped through her nose as Ron set his teeth on the mound of her sex and gently bit, holding firm._ _ _ _

____Her concentration on Harry slipped as Ron nipped shallow bites down to the edge of her folds, and quickly licked back to the top, never breaching her wetness._ _ _ _

____Ron ground the slick fabric of his pants against the mattress as he worked his way back down the other side of her slit, licking, biting, never enough to let her come._ _ _ _

____Harry slipped his hands into her hair and gently slid the head of his cock back and forth in her mouth. Her attention returned to the man in front of her. She locked her lips around him and sucked the air out of her mouth, eliciting a grunt and small thrust from Harry._ _ _ _

____She felt Ron’s hands spread her open, and desperately hoped he’d finally give her enough friction to come. She curled her hips up to meet him as he pressed his mouth around her clit, avoiding touching it directly. His fingers swept her entrance, refusing to dip inside. She whined in frustration._ _ _ _

____Above her, Harry’s breathing was getting shallow, and his thrusting more insistent. “Where do you want it?”_ _ _ _

____“Come in my pussy,” she whispered, lightly scraping her teeth on the underside of his cock._ _ _ _

____“Ron. Trade me.”_ _ _ _

____Her hips tilted up and legs spread, eager for Ron’s teasing to be replaced by Harry’s thrusting. Harry ran a palm between her legs and spread her wetness on his leaking cock._ _ _ _

____Ron knelt next to her shoulder, erection straining against the slick blue fabric of his pants. She leaned forward to press her teeth around the outline of his cock as he groaned. She tongued the damp spot his cock had made, and his breath hitched. He slid the pants down his thighs, cock bobbing free._ _ _ _

____She leaned forward and caught the head of it in her mouth, swirling her tongue around the underside just as Harry parted her folds with his fingers, and started to press his tip against her opening. Her hips bucked up, encouraging him to enter._ _ _ _

____Her eyes closed, anticipating the fullness of Harry filling her. He eased lower, pressing, and she gasped as entered. He shuddered as he eased past the tightness and sank fully inside her._ _ _ _

____She ached for him to start moving, the girth of him was enough to bring her to orgasm with just a little more motion. Instead, he sat upright and gently rocked back and forth, stroking the skin above her pubic bone, watching her flesh bow with his hips’ movements._ _ _ _

____The frustrated, needy whimpers she made around Ron’s cock were nearly enough to undo both men. Ron’s hands stayed firmly planted, one on the headboard, and one on his hip, not trusting himself to grab a hold of her hair and thrust too deeply in her throat. She slid her hand up his inner thigh and gently ran her fingernails along his scrotum. He groaned, leaned forward and buried himself deeper in her throat._ _ _ _

____“Where, ‘Mione?” he panted._ _ _ _

____She slid him back out to her lips. ”Anywhere.”_ _ _ _

____“Don’t stop.”_ _ _ _

____Her hand snaked around to his hip, distracting him, and slid her mouth forward, curly auburn hairs tickling her nose. She smiled, accidentally breaking the suction, but thinking of all the times they’d joked about his body hair. His hand on top of her head brought her concentration back, not pulling, but encouraging._ _ _ _

____Harry bent forward and settled a hand on the mattress next to her waist. His other hand snuck between them, carefully circling but still avoiding her clit. Keeping control of his hips was testing his patience immensely, but it was better than fucking her hard while she had Ron in her mouth. But if he couldn’t come yet, he certainly wasn’t going to let her, either._ _ _ _

____Hermione pushed Ron deeper, pulling her lips and cheeks tight, and started a steady rhythm. She could feel Harry’s cock jerk inside her in anticipation of the other man’s release._ _ _ _

____“Oh, gods, ‘Mione,” Ron whispered, as he grabbed her hand off his hip, squeezed it, and came, flooding her mouth with his climax. He withdrew and leaned shakily against the headboard._ _ _ _

____Harry wasted no time, his body coming down to hover over her. He sank his elbows down next to her shoulders. Her hands wrapped up to clutch his upper arms. She swallowed, and his mouth crashed down on hers as his hips took up a deep, driving rhythm._ _ _ _

____His tongue probed her mouth catching the remnants of his best friend’s orgasm, licking it from her, knowing his would be in her soon._ _ _ _

____Hot tension pooled in her hips, each of his strokes tightening it. Her fingernails dug into his arms as she fought to keep her climax at bay, waiting for him. The rhythm of his thrusting stuttered, his mouth on hers froze, and she let the spooled pleasure release._ _ _ _

____Her orgasm ripped through her as he cried out above her, thrusting deeply, grinding against her as she clenched around his cock, her body pulling every drop from him._ _ _ _

____Harry dropped his weight on her and nuzzled into her neck. Her arms wrapped around his back while their breathing slowed. Ron slid down to lay alongside them, his arm going under her head._ _ _ _

____She nipped at Harry’s ear, prompting him to lift his head. He grazed a kiss across her lips and lifted himself up._ _ _ _

____“Slowly,” she reminded him. He nodded, and pulled himself out of her until only the head of his cock was inside. Looking at her and receiving a nod to continue, he gradually pulled his cock through the tight ring of muscle at her entrance. Her breath hissed in at the stretch then emptiness as he withdrew._ _ _ _

____Harry flopped down on his back opposite Ron. “Fuck, am I glad you didn’t stay in Australia.”_ _ _ _

____“Me, too,” she chuckled._ _ _ _

____“I’d have come to Perth,” mused Ron._ _ _ _

____Harry rolled to his side and propped up on an elbow. “But we didn’t _know_ to go to Perth.”_ _ _ _

____“Good point. ‘Mione, why didn’t you send us a letter and tell us?”_ _ _ _

____“Dear Ron and Harry. I’m an amazing shag, and you should travel to the opposite side of the world to prove me correct.”_ _ _ _

____Harry grinned. “That would have been all I needed to hear.”_ _ _ _

____Ron slid his arm under her head, his forearm under Harry’s, and laid his head on Hermione’s shoulder. Harry rolled to his side, draping an arm over Hermione’s waist, his cheek on Ron’s forearm. Ron hovered a fist above Hermione in challenge again._ _ _ _

____Harry batted Ron’s fist away with a chuckle. “Randy bugger.”_ _ _ _

____“Maybe next time,” Ron quipped. “‘Mione, let’s do something fun for your birthday next month.” Briefly, she thought he meant anal sex, but the tone was too innocent._ _ _ _

____She was impressed he’d remembered her birthday, and that he’d already predicted it would coincide with when she’d likely want to see them._ _ _ _

____“This wasn’t fun enough for you?” Harry asked._ _ _ _

____“I mean, what if we got together for more than sex. What do you think?” Ron asked tentatively._ _ _ _

____Hermione chewed her lip and thought. The agreement had been no strings attached, and this felt like a date. Or maybe it was just a birthday with friends. It would certainly be more fun than a birthday alone._ _ _ _

____“Hm. Alright. London?”_ _ _ _

____“Sounds good, I have that weekend off,” said Harry, counting on his fingers._ _ _ _

____“I don’t have anything but endless reading. Ron?”_ _ _ _

____“Yeah, the shop won’t burn down without me that far into September. Probably,” he said with reservation. It was actually a strong possibility, about which he worried often._ _ _ _

____“I want to see the shop!” Hermione exclaimed. It had probably changed so much with Ron in charge. He put his heart into everything he did, and she knew the store was undoubtedly amazing because of it._ _ _ _

____“Do you want to Floo in and spend Friday night at mine?” Harry offered._ _ _ _

____“Yes,” they both replied emphatically._ _ _ _

____“I might bring those throw pillows early,” she yawned, pulling the covers up over them._ _ _ _

____Harry nuzzled his agreement into her shoulder, stilling. Ron reached out and turned off the lamp next to the bed and settled into a pillow, snuggling his back along her side._ _ _ _

____For the second night in a row, she decided to share a bed, and maybe it wasn’t so bad._ _ _ _

___ _

________

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

____ Hither and Dither _ _ _ _

____Oh, my stalker’s well-equipped,  
And I mean in every way._ _ _ _

____I ask him to come in,  
But the dumb Muggle won’t stay._ _ _ _

____Perhaps were I a damsel,  
He’d have courage to say…_ _ _ _

______DLM 2007 Truro_  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************_

__  
__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	13. Horticultural Horrorshow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut.  
> Ron is smarter than Hermione thought.  
> Ron is technically a criminal.  
> Ron can read a flower arrangement better than Hermione can make one.  
> Ron gets sad.  
> Ron gets a blowjob.  
> Ron hangs out with Malfoy in an enlighteningly domestic way.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Goody No-Shoes

This child, so trained!  
Such gifts he has, so well-minded.  
This child, so trained!  
So pure and strong and unashamed.  
Ignorant, properly blinded.  
No, he needs not be reminded.  
This child, so trained!

DLM 1998 Hogwarts  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

Boredom expanded in her chest like slowly rising smoke, threatening to halt her breathing and drop her dead. Could a person be so bored they simply died, she wondered? It seemed possible.

Godric’s gullet, this man just kept _talking_ , but he hadn’t really _said_ anything in an hour. And what he had said was verbatim from her text. Glancing over her shoulder, she noted most of the class was fucking off on a mobile, doodling, or fighting going back to sleep. Morning classes should never be this dull. It was inhumane. 

One of her fellow students had his chin cradled in his palms and was staring, glassy-eyed at their instructor, who was interpreting this as rapt interest. The guy either had a vivid imagination or half a leftover spliff in his pocket.

He didn’t look the type to smoke on a weekday morning, which begged the question of what he was intensely daydreaming about. Blue eyes blinked rapidly below dark brows, and he inhaled deeply, coming back from wherever he’d been. Adjusting in his seat, he caught her watching him and smiled sheepishly. 

He was cute, she thought.

————————————————————

The Azkaban guards this morning were both witches, and curiosity was going to get the better of him. If he could think of a tasteful way to ask “Why are you both women?” 

Which, it turned out, he couldn’t. So he sat, pondering whether the Ministry had a new recruiting policy, or if perhaps his parents had done something that required the removal of male guards.

He wouldn’t put it past Narcissa to seduce the guards. And her hair was braided again. Maybe still in the same braid, judging by the fraying edges. She was especially unkempt today.

The last twenty minutes had been spent letting her monologue about wedding plans. The last five minutes of which had been spent in a verbal circle about enchanted icicles and diamonds and a dragon ice sculpture that would belch spritefire, whatever the fuck that was. She wasn’t even looking at him anymore, lost in her own daydream.

Lucius’s fingers drummed on the tabletop. “How did the vineyard do this year?” he asked softly, not wanting to disturb his wife’s fantasy wedding planning.

 _Shit_ , Draco thought. Lucius’s preferred topics of conversation were the ones that were difficult to lie about. Draco could make up stories about his social and dating life for years, but Lucius could easily send an inquiry to area spirits purveyors and find out that the Ministry had razed the Malfoy Manor vineyards two years ago. Maybe someone in the postal room could be bribed… nah. Too Slytherin.

“Not great, honestly,” Draco said heavily, trying to sound remorseful. “Issues with powdery mildew, but better than the neighboring estates.”

Lucius nodded, satisfied. Guilt with a dash of superiority was always the correct answer. Admit to a minor failure to keep the scent of utter breakdown off the wind.

Draco fought to keep a placid mask on his face as Lucius scrutinized him. Narcissa’s rambling had moved on to peacock ring bearers. Cold grey eyes flicked up and down his face, not dissimilar to when he was getting ready to hurtle a curse.

“Pansy is better with hair than...” Lucius trailed off. He flicked his hand dismissively. “… whoever was cutting it before.”

“Luna,” Draco sighed, knowing damn well he’d told them this before.

“Draco!” Narcissa barked, abruptly returning from her nuptial-planning utopia. “Is Pansy pregnant?”

Lucius flinched and ran a hand down his face, and the men exchanged concerned looks as they each worried if conversation was going _that_ direction.

“No, she’s not,” Draco confirmed, leaning back and lacing his fingers together over his belt buckle.

“Are you _sure_ , darling? She may just say she’s getting fat.” She assessed her ragged, filthy fingernails with regal approval.

Lucius looked at her pointedly, daring her to acknowledge her own premarital hypocrisy.

“Uhm, no. Bit lean, actually. She took up running,” Draco drawled, knowing any personal detail would derail Narcissa’s interrogation and avoid her own breakdown. Maybe.

“ _Running?!_ ” she screamed. “Like a _Muggle_?!” She shot up out of her chair to lean over the table to yell at him, prompting the guards to step up behind her.

Lucius rolled his eyes and thanked Draco for coming. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that Lucius was just as unhinged as his wife. Just… more quietly. More subtly.

Where Narcissa was a live wire sparking about on the ground, daring anyone to come close, Lucius was a fucking lightning bolt of merciless, sudden rage. And really, Lucius was the cause of his wife’s threadbare sanity. Whether he would ever take ownership of that was doubtful.

“ _She runs, Lucy! Probably just runs around in circles! We can’t have that!_ ” Narcissa was still ranting as he turned.

The door to the visitation room swung open, and he stepped through.

One-hundred and sixty-fifth visit, not that he was counting.

————————————————————-

Her classmate had, indeed, been not entirely sober, it turned out. He barely made it out of the building before lighting one right there on the sidewalk. She’d declined his offer to “hang out sometime”. It smacked of wasted time. And his eyes were a similar blue to Ron’s. Why bother wasting time with a stoned law student when she had a randy, bearded wizard at her beck and call?

Back in her apartment, she eyed the courting guide suspiciously. It had surprised her how much time she spent thinking about Ron. The couple nights after having him and Harry in her bed had felt so lonely. The first night, she’d contemplated walking to the public Floo and just sneaking into the Burrow. Worry over what he might infer had kept her in her bed. Crookshanks was a poor substitute.

She’d decided she would go visit the Burrow this afternoon. Her coursework had been surprisingly easy thus far, and she was very disappointed. Other than some meetings, assigned reading, and the Wizengamot summons, her internship hadn’t required much, either. So, getting reacquainted with the Weasleys would be a good next step.

Showing up unannounced and empty-handed seemed in poor taste. The courting guide recommended flowers, and gave a horrifically detailed guide to arranging them to convey your meaning. Enough of the ones she wanted were fall-blooming, so she headed out to Bute Park.

————————

Surveying her shopping bags, filthy shoes, and backpack of leaves, she had to admit that Bute Park had been only marginally successful. And that maybe she’d gotten a little carried away, having visited two flower shops, a gardening center, and the silk flower section of a craft store. She had spent the entire afternoon snipping, arranging, rearranging, tying, retying, and overthinking.

The book said that the message of an arrangement flowed in a circular pattern from the top, round to the bottom, and back up, with the flowers in the middle being the central theme.

So, this arrangement of silk purple hyacinth, willow branches, plastic zinnias, pink carnations, arborvitae, candytuft, belladonna, Columbine, and chamomile; while hideous, poisonous, and malodorous, was chock full of lovely sentiment.

Read in order, it made an apology: _I’m sorry for my silence. I longed for you. I’m sorry I made you sad. I was foolish and indifferent._

The center of little plastic zinnias and arborvitae snippets meant that the surrounding flowers surrounded a theme of _“I thought often of my absent friends and unchanging friendship.”_

Perfect. She wrapped it in a blue ribbon, and with a pop, Apparated to the front door of the Burrow, rangy tangle of plants in hand.

———————————

“You should have stayed in Bumfuck, Russia,” Draco said, eyeing the eagle suspiciously. She had flown in through an open window and proceeded to shred a sketch he’d been working on for three days. A couple more hours of ink and needle, and it would have been done.

“Well, go on and shit on it, then,” he challenged. He really did expect her to do so. She had an uncanny ability to understand him out of his Animagus form.

Instead, she swept the shreds into a pile, gingerly stepped in the middle of it, and nestled herself in with a wiggle.

“Oh,” he exclaimed softly. “I… congrats?” She whistled softly as he took the small note off of her leg. She made no move to bite him. Highly unusual

_Malfoy,  
I have no idea how this works. Send a message back if you get this._

_Harry_

_P.S. She bites. Hard.  
_

He grabbed one of the larger shreds of paper, briefly mourning the fate of the bouquet he’d tediously tapped out. Flipping the scrap over, he scrawled:

_Potter,  
Message received. But I think she has a nest somewhere. She may not be reliable going forward._

_Malfoy_

_P.S. Just take the compliment. Tosser._

——————————

None of the Weasleys came to the door. Odd. She considered leaving the bouquet on the front steps, but didn’t have anything to write a note with. Best to just leave it inside, then. She froze, brow furrowed, as the doorknob vibrated under her fingertips.

In fact, the whole door was shaking. As was the stone stoop under her feet. An earthquake? Stepping back, a dust plume rose in the near distance behind the peak of the roof. What in Godric’s name…

She took off at a run around the side of the house and stopped short. Catching her breath, she surveyed the area.

The property behind the house was absolutely blown to shit. Several pits the size of house foundations sat like scooped out eye sockets, and cubes of stone formed a jagged grin of a stone wall. 

Gray hair poked up at the edge of a pit, rising to reveal a dust-covered man in goggles with a kerchief tied around his face. He climbed out and plopped heavily on the edge of the pit, pulling off the goggles.

“Ron?” His silhouette in the settling dust looked like Ron. The man didn’t turn.

“Ron!” she yelled, fairly sure it was him. He didn’t respond to her, but took the face covering off to reveal a neat auburn beard.

Confident, she walked up behind him and tapped his shoulder. He squeaked in surprise and nearly fell into the pit. She hid a laugh behind her free hand.

“Holy hell, ‘Mione! You scared the _shit_ out of me!” he yelled, reaching both hands up to pull something out of each ear.

“Sorry,” she said timidly, very glad he didn’t fall in the pit. “So…what is all this?”

It was Ron’s turn to respond sheepishly. “Uhm… research? I guess?”

Hermione glared at him suspiciously, hiding the flowers behind her back. They’d be less impressive covered in rock dust.

He sighed, knowing that look. It was the _Hermione Granger smells something interesting, and will chase it into a hole and proceed to dig it out and shake it to death_ look. 

“Okay, so, after the war, I dropped out of Auror training and did reconstruction work for a couple years. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, so I helped rebuild shit. And I learned how little progress has been made in the last _thousand_ years. 

We haven’t come up with any new construction spells or charms, and most of them have been forgotten. Did you know we had to rebuild Hogwarts with the same spells they used 800 years ago? Guess where we had to find the spells,” he said expectantly.

She shook her head, having never once in her life considered how magical structures were created or maintained.

“Yeah. Had to dig them out of the fucking rubble. It took years longer than it should have, and I don’t think we did an amazing job of it. That staircase is going to kill someone,” Ron admitted before continuing.

“So, after George dumped the shop on me, I started making structural improvements, including a huge basement excavation. The place was a wreck, but you’d never have known it. Nobody thinks twice about a puddle here, or a loose brick there when you’re in a shop with a Dark Farts section.”

He stopped to scramble up from the ground, a cloud of rock dust sifting down off of him. He was entirely grayscale save for his beard and eyes. It was rather striking. His eyes shone as he talked about his work, and she couldn’t help smiling.

It was probably the longest she’d ever heard him speak without Harry interrupting or distracting him, and she slowly realized how much she’d underestimated his intelligence. 

She’d suspected for a long time that he played dumb because he was thinking something through and didn’t want to be bothered. It seemed she may have been correct.

Aware of her flowers wilting, she listened as he told her about combining blasting and space extension charms to add entire subterranean floors to the shop. Her mind had trouble wrapping around what he was describing.

“Ron,” she said, stopping him. “You blasted out thousands of cubic yards under the shop. In Diagon Alley?”

“Yup,” he quipped.

“In broad daylight?”

“Yup,” he said. “But I did evacuate the store. Said we had a Niffler on the loose. People will leave for the sake of their galleons, but not their safety.”

“I’ve underestimated you, Ronald Weasley,” she said with finality.

“Yup,” he agreed, scratching his beard.

“So, what’s in the lower levels?” she asked, trying to hide a near-fatal curiosity.

“Promise you won’t tell anybody?” Ron replied. “Not even Harry? Hell, especially not Harry?”

“Maybe...” She said hesitantly. What on earth could he have down there he couldn’t tell his best friend about?

“It’s just cuz he’s an Auror, and it’s not… legal,” he admitted. “Like, it’s not bad, not at all, but the Ministry would _not_ appreciate it.”

“Ron! You have to tell me now,” she insisted. The suspense would kill her. Or sneaking in to find out for herself and running afoul of the perils of his secret lair would. 

Her first guess would be some kind of elaborate man cave. Beer, posters of naked women, games, and the like. And below that, she figured he would probably keep sentimental things from school and Quidditch. Below that, she wasn’t sure. Illegal Exploding Snap betting tables?

“Okay, so the first basement is storage for Ministry-ordered supplies. I got us into defense charms in a big way about five years ago. The level below that is… a dragon egg hatchery. It looks like a boiler room. Just… with a lot of boilers. And sometimes hatchlings. Charlie brings the eggs in and takes the hatchlings back to the reserves. I get to keep the shells to sell to apothecaries and whatnot.”

She nodded in approval. Other people would be less reputable and try to sell the hatchlings. Ron and Charlie were kind of a perfect team to be helping restore dragon populations.

“And then the third level,” he started. “That’s where it gets dicey. You sure you want to know?”

Hesitating, she shook her head slowly. “I can’t not know, at this point, Ron.”

He nodded. “Alright, so there’s a wall-size unregistered, international Floo…”

She shrugged. “For bringing dragon eggs in, I assume?”

“Well, yeah, originally. Fuck, ‘Mione, are you sure?”

“I am,” she declared, standing straight, “but is there a _fourth_ basement?”

“No. Not yet, anyway,” he said, grinning and peeking around her back. “Those for me?”

“Oh! Yes,” she blurted, having forgotten she was still holding the bouquet behind her. “But not till you tell me about the third basement.”

“Well, fine. I… dispose of dead illegal magical creatures,” he muttered, running his hands up the short hair on the back of his head. “Which sounds like a bit of a cover-up operation, and I guess sometimes it is, but that’s not on me.”

“You… butcher rare creatures,” she said hesitantly. That didn’t sound like Ron.

“Kind of?” he said weakly. “People bring me dead creatures they weren’t supposed to have. Or that they find and are potentially dangerous. I put the carcasses under a Stasis charm and remove important parts. The rest gets fed to hatchlings or burned up in the incubator furnaces.”

She was a little aghast, she had to admit. It was brilliant in its simplicity, but it sounded so dubious. “So… what kind of creatures? Dead dragons?” Merlin, she hoped it was just dragons.

“Oh, no, anybody can do dragons.” He shook his head. “Like, right now, I’ve got a Horned Serpent that MACUSA shipped after they accidentally killed it in a raid. They don’t even want anything for it. Ollivander’s has pre-paid for the horn. Generously. They’ll be the only global supplier of Horned Serpent-core wands for the next decade.”

She nodded, feeling stupid. How could she have thought that he was putting so much effort into joke candy and fucking Dark Farts charms? Godric, she’d underestimated him beyond belief.

“I get to keep the scales, which is a pretty great deal. The hatchlings get to eat horned serpent meat, which has actually increased their post-hatch survival rate quite a bit. All I gotta do is the processing and keep my mouth shut that MACUSA didn’t scan a property for sentient non-humans before blowing it to kingdom come,” he said with a wink.

“I…” she stammered. “I… don’t…”

He stepped up closer to her, and she could smell the rock dust on him like a whiff of approaching rain. 

“Yeah, I know.” Ron chuckled. “Come on, ‘Mione, though. Did you really think I’d be happy selling chocolate frogs?”

She shook her head, but it was a lie. She absolutely thought he’d been living out the twins’ teenage fantasy.

“Sell jokes all day, come home to dinner on the table?” He reached up, biting his lip, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Some perfectly nice wife and a herd of little Weasleys to impress with the new booger charms from the store?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Because, yes, that was exactly what she’d expected to find when she came back. He took the opportunity to lay a chaste kiss on her lower lip.

“Lucky for me my brothers all have perfectly nice wives and herds,” he whispered, trailing his lips along her jaw. “I’m more partial to curly-haired Harpies.”

She grinned at the playful jibe, glad that he couldn’t see she’d actually enjoyed it. His teeth nipped her earlobe, and leaned her head away, urging him to continue. Instead, he looked down over her shoulder.

“Have I earned those now?” he asked with an excited wiggle. Grateful for the break in tension, she hummed her response and thrust them out to him.

She bit her lip and waited for his reaction. It had been so much work, and she hoped she’d gotten it right. Godric, if she hadn’t, she’d be furious. It had taken all damned day. He examined them, mouthing words to himself. Slowly, his mouth drooped from a pleased smile to a disappointed line to an angry scowl.

“Wow,” he stated simply, stepping back from her and dropping the bouquet to his side.

“Wow?” She inquired, not sure why he looked so angry if he was impressed.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a sniffle.

“Yeah, wow,” he spat. “Nobody’s ever told me off with flowers. And with such deadly accuracy. So, _wow_. Incredibly cold. Even for a Harpy.”

He thrust them back at her, and she accepted them, not knowing what else to do. Shocked, she opened her mouth to speak, but he held a hand up to silence her.

“I need to get cleaned up. You can see yourself out, Granger,” he said, and Apparated out with a pop.

Suddenly alone, tears pooled in her eyes as she stared down at the raggedy bouquet, grateful for the solitude as she cried into her sleeve.

——————————

Softly, Hermione opened the door to the tiny bathroom on the third floor, slipped inside, and immediately regretted it. Quiet sobs came from behind the shower curtain. Seizing the opportunity, she took his wand off the sink and set it on the floor behind the toilet, just in case this went exceptionally poorly.

“Ron?” she called firmly in the small room.

He cleared his throat loudly and blew his nose. “What do you want, Hermione?”

Her voice broke a little as she replied. “I think I made the bouquet wrong. I’d never done it before, and I had to go to a half-dozen places to get all the pieces, and I spent all afternoon on it, and I don’t know what I did, and I…I…” Her words dissolved as she hid her face in her hands and broke into jagged sobs. 

She sat down on the toilet lid, elbows on her knees, trying to rein in her blubbering. Merlin, she’d fucked this up beyond belief. The shower turned off, but Ron didn’t step out for a few long moments. He scraped water from his hair as he thought. She had no idea what she’d conveyed, he realized. Shit. 

It hadn’t occurred to him that she was trying to speak a language for the first time. His parents had exchanged bouquets at least once a week his whole life. Hell, they all knew to sleep over at a friend’s house any given weekend based on how racy a flower arrangement was.

Gods, and she’d tried to learn it for _him_? She could have done anything else with her day, and she’d chosen to spend it on _him_? Ugh, and he’d literally shoved it back at her and stormed off. Nobody would ever bring him Thestrals at this rate.

He stepped out and stood on the rug in front of her. He reached for her chin, tilting it up. “Godric, ‘Mione. I’m so sorry,” he croaked, throat tight. “I didn’t know you’d never made one. I’ve read thousands of them, and it never occurred to me that you’ve probably never even seen one.”

She took a long, shuddering breath, calming, and rolled her eyes up to him. It was an interesting angle, she thought. He was swollen and wet from the heat of the shower, and already so close to her mouth. All of that clean skin begged to be tasted.

She licked her lips, and his gaze followed hers down, his breath hitching.

“I may have been overconfident in my book learning,” she admitted, leaning forward to plant a soft kiss on the center of his rapidly hardening shaft. “So maybe I should apologize, too.”

His hands brushed her hair from her eyes, and he looked down at her, hurt. “No, ‘Mione, that was my fault, I should have known that you didn’t grow up-“

She sucked him into her mouth in one quick movement, and he froze. He was so slick against her tongue, and still soft enough to work the flesh of him around. Slowly, she pulled him back out of her lips, sucking hard.

“I think I kind of want to apologize for scaring you,” she whispered, and licked the tip of his growing erection. “Like this.”

He hummed softly, head tilting back, his hands coming to rest in her hair as she slid him fully into the back of her mouth, pressing gently into her throat. “Fuck, ‘Mione.”

She pulled him back out, sucking him dry. “Don’t ever call me ‘Granger’ again,” she whispered against his length, sliding him back along her tongue.

His breath hissed in as she took him entirely, teasing a low groan from his throat. “You’re in danger of being called ‘Weasley’ if you keep that up,” he said, low and hoarse.

“Hmm,” she hummed against his tip, thinking. “I don’t think Harpies change their names.”

He chuckled and stroked her hair. “Let’s find a bed,” he suggested. “I can’t exactly reciprocate like this.”

“No,” she stated, sliding him back down to her throat again, relaxing him down deep, bobbing slightly while her hands slid up his thighs to his hips.

His breathing had grown ragged, and a hot flush crept up his chest and neck. She dragged her lips tight against him, replacing her mouth with her hand. Stroking slowly, grip tight, she avoided his sensitive head, keeping him near coming.

“I thought about this all day.” She grazed the head of him with her lips, and a soft whine escaped him.

“I thought about making you come while I was in class.” The tip of her tongue lapped the slit at the tip of his length, and he swore softly under his breath.

“I thought about tasting you when another man asked me out.” _That_ drew a pleased growl from him without even putting her lips on him, she noted with a smile.

“And do you know what I thought about for _hours_ while I made that damned bouquet?” she asked, tightening her grip and letting her fingers slide over the head of his erection.

He shook his head and grunted. “I thought about how I was going to make you come in my mouth tonight and drink you down while you moan my name.”

He gasped softly. Medea’s mons, when had she turned from a witch into a succubus? He was too close to coming to even answer her. Her thumb drew circles over the tip of his cock, and he hummed expectantly.

Her hand slid down against his pelvis as her mouth sank down behind it. A pleading moan reverberated above her. His fingers gripped her hair, gently holding her still.

Tentatively, his hips thrust forward, slowly burying himself in her. She hummed her approval and slid her hands around to grip his arse, edges of her fingernails digging in a touch.

Tasting salt on her tongue, she knew he was closing in quickly. She relaxed her throat and pulled him closer with her hands, encouraging him to move.

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath as he started thrusting, quickly finding then losing a rhythm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mouthed with each stroke.

The muscles under her hands snapped tight and she took a deep breath, holding him in the back of her throat.

“Fuck, ‘Mione!” he shouted, holding her head tight against him as he throbbed and his release pooled on the back of her tongue. She sucked him tight, pulling back a little, and swallowed. He jerked as she ran her tongue forward and back, chasing any stray drops.

His hands loosened their grip, and she slid hers around to his hips, steadying herself. With a long, last final suck, she pulled back, licking a single drop off the tip of him.

He huffed a surprised laugh and sighed. “Let’s go fix your flowers.”

Grinning, she stood and he kissed her softly. “ _You_ correcting _my_ work? First time for everything.”

————————————

“Okay, let’s start with the ribbon. Blue means it’s from an orphan. Which, from you, looks like a pity play, what with the Obliviation and whatnot,” Ron instructed, sipping a cup of scarlet tea.

“Oh… I picked it because it’s the same shade as your eyes…” she whispered, embarrassed. She hadn’t even known ribbons had meanings, but of course they did.

He set his teacup down to untie the bouquet. “That’s adorable. But incorrect.” He tossed the ribbon on top of her head, and she glared at him.

“Next, the overall theme, the theme of the flowers around the outside mea-“

“But the book said the ones in the middle were the theme!”

“That’s for three-layered bouquets. This is two. And fake flowers turn the meaning sarcastic.”

“What?! That wasn’t in the book at all!” She was going to whip that book at Malfoy’s face next time she saw him. _If_ she saw him again. Coming to grips with a clingy, snuggly Hufflepuff Malfoy was taking a while.

“So, with the center as the overarching theme and the ring outside as the narrative,” he continued, “this reads _I’m absolutely not sorry for my indifference, silence, and your worrying. You’re sad and foolish. I don’t think of you often and this will never change.’_ ”

She stared at him in horror. “I’m never arranging flowers again.”

“It could have been worse. Tansies and rhododendrons are a declaration of war,” he joked as he disassembled the mess.

“Oh, Merlin.” She slouched down in her chair. “So, what should I have sent?”

“Uhm…” He scratched his beard, thinking. “Floriography doesn’t lend itself well to casual sex. It’s more subtle than that. Probably just fern.”

“A fern? Just… buy a houseplant?” she said incredulously. That sounded entirely too easy.

“Well, no. You’d cut different types and lengths and still arrange them. Ferns mean sincerity and humility, which is what you were going for. But also bonds of magic and love." He stopped abruptly. “Unspecified love, not necessarily romantic.” 

He picked apart her bouquet, making a small pile of select flowers.

“That’s a lot simpler than what I did,” she groused.

“Yeah, you tried to write a book, not a poem,” he joked. “Here. For you.”

He handed her a small bundle. Chamomile, and then the arborvitae and candytuft were upside down.

“What does it mean if they’re upside down?” she asked, exasperated.

He smiled. Her book must be ancient. Probably French customs, too. “It’s an anti-meaning. It reverses the meaning. Or means that the feeling has ended. Handy for if what you want is out of season.”

“Okay, so chamomile; longing. And the opposites of unchanging friendship and indifference?” she guessed.

He nodded, refilling his tea, waiting for her reaction. It was a bit of a gamble.

“Longing, changing friendship, and…interest?”

He nodded again. “But does that mean you’re longing _for_ those things, or is the longing separate?”

“Leave it to you to complicate the shit out of romantic gestures. It’s not that specific." He swept the loose leaves and petals into a pile. “And most couples develop their own little dialect. If you ever see a stargazer lily in this house, don’t be around after dark or you’ll hear why my parents had so many kids.”

“Gross.” Hermione grimaced. "But also kind of cute.”

“Not cute, ‘Mione. Not cute at all.”

——————————

Ron sat alone at the kitchen table. His mum and the kids would be back soon. He’d decided to make himself conspicuously absent from the store while they did the traditional First Year Diagon Alley shopping spree. Avoiding Weasley’s Wheezes when family and friends were shopping had become a habit. Anything to avoid being asked to give tours. 

Harry had asked about the new door in the back storage, and he’d felt obliged to show him the first basement level. Which was fine. It was Ministry stock, and he was a bloody Auror. But then Harry had asked about the massive iron door that was hot to the touch.

Luckily, Harry was fairly gullible. So Auror Potter really did think Ministry charms and uniforms needed to be kept in a well-heated room. The lie had tasted bitter, but if he was ever going to get arrested for the contents of the basements, he’d rather it not be Harry who cuffed him.

Hermione’s dismantled bouquet was still scattered over the table, and he arranged and rearranged pieces mindlessly like a word puzzle. He still couldn’t believe she’d tried to teach herself. He’d been a teenager by the time he could read them accurately. It wasn’t an especially useful skill. Not the kind of thing Hermione Granger would bother with.

So, it begged the question of how she’d found out about it. And why she’d used rather antiquated formulas. She’d mentioned a book. He only knew one person who’d suggest she learn finishing school skills from an outdated book. And he had some impressive bookshelves in his cave.

Smiling, Ron wondered how that conversation had gone. He couldn’t imagine Hermione being at all receptive to the suggestion she should learn about traditional wizard courting when she didn’t even seem keen on modern dating. 

But if anyone were going to make the case to her that it was relevant, he supposed it would be Malfoy. And if he’d convinced her to learn for _his_ benefit, well, that was downright thoughtful. 

And it _was_ relevant, because, if he had to admit it, he’d fucking loved it. Everything about it just felt right and made sense. The idea that she might send him another bouquet would have him on edge for weeks. The anticipation was better than snogging in closets.

He supposed he owed Malfoy a debt of gratitude, and it only seemed fitting to respond in kind. His mum’s gardens had enough atmospheric charms in them that he should be able to find everything he needed.

————————

An hour later, he still sat alone at the kitchen table, but he had a respectable bundle of ferns and Queen Anne’s Lace, which meant _bonds and sanctuary_ with upside down tansies, orange lilies, and begonias. _Anti-hatred, anti-war, and anti-threat_.

It wasn’t pretty, but it was a serviceable _“I’ve buried the hatchet and have your back.”_

Setting it aside, he got up to dispose of Hermione’s horticultural horror show, but a thud and scuffle at the door caught his interest. His mum and the kids would use the Floo.

A soft knock sounded. Few people bothered knocking at the Burrow. And those who did wouldn’t actually stand outside and wait.

“Come in!” Ron hollered, assuming it was one of his brothers’ wives' friends or something. 

A note on the counter caught his eye, and he remembered he’d told his mum he’d follow her instructions to start dinner. He hopped up to start, letting his visitor find their way in.

The front door closed with a soft click, and someone cleared their throat. Ron peeked around through the living room to find a windblown Malfoy in the entryway, like he’d been summoned by the power of carefully-arranged flowers.

He smoothed a rumpled t-shirt into place and attempted to sort his hair as he crossed the living room. He looked like he expected to be thrown out at any minute.

“Hey,” Ron chirped, struggling to figure out what his mum meant by “julienne the carrots”. That had to be a mistake. Maybe he was supposed to Romeo the celery, too?

“Uhm, hi,” Malfoy mumbled, not quite nervous enough to slip into posh elocution. “I come bearing dubious Ministry explosives.”

Ron tested the Blood Magic bond, and found it faint, but there. Malfoy was beyond uneasy.

“Thanks. Grab us a couple bottles?” Ron asked, waving an overly large knife toward the icebox.

Malfoy lifted the strap of his bag over his head, set it on the table, and eyed the carnations and carnage. He poked around in the plants and eyed Ron warily.

“Are you brewing poison in your family’s kitchen, Weasley?” Malfoy asked cautiously, testing the belladonna’s freshness with his thumbnail. “Because I don’t know if I’ve got it in me to bring you back from the brink twice in a month.”

“Oh, no,” Ron replied, taking a bottle from him. “Hermione tried her and at Floriography today. That’s the renovated wreckage. She made a right mess of it.” He chuckled, thinking how horribly wrong she’d gotten it.

Malfoy opened his beer and took an impressively long swig, in Ron’s opinion. He hadn’t actually thought he’d stoop to the drink of the common man. But behold, a muggle-clothed, beer-swilling Malfoy. Setting his bottle down, he picked up the bouquet Ron had just finished.

“That one’s for you,” Ron explained. “I suspect you had something to do with her attempt?” Ron had skipped the instructions about how to chop the carrots and moved on to the celery, which did _not_ require anything fancier than hacking it to bits.

“I slipped a book in…” Malfoy trailed off, examining the bundle. “Uhm, Weasley? Are you _certain_ you’re not brewing poison over there?” He eyed his beer suspiciously.

“Pretty sure,” he said, wondering if there was a lethal way to chop celery. “Why?”

“Because this bouquet is either declaring all-out war or ending it, depending on orientation.” Malfoy flipped the flowers back and forth demonstrably.

“Oh! No,” Ron exclaimed, “ferns up.”

Draco sighed and swallowed down a quarter of his beer. If he thought Ron had cared, he would have told him that a feather in the front of the bouquet was the proper way to denote orientation. At least per De Pompadour rules. He frowned, quietly hating that his brain was crammed full of such useless shit.

Ron was mutilating celery, it seemed. And perfectly good carrots and onions looked to be next on death row. “May I?” Draco asked, extending a hand for the chef’s knife that was being used with all the elegance of a Bludger’s bat.

“Knock yourself out,” Ron said, excusing himself. “Maybe you know how to translate the carrot instructions.”

Draco looked down and read Molly’s recipe. “That’s English, you knob. It’s matchsticks.” It was an awfully fussy recipe for pot pie, and he thoroughly approved.

Ron shrugged, more than happy to be in charge of beer procurement. Malfoy swiftly dealt with the celery, producing a pile of uniform little arches. Watching the man handle a knife was oddly entrancing, Ron thought to himself. 

He focused on their lingering bond, and was surprised to feel a surge of contentment. A loud pop and a ruckus started in the living room, and Malfoy’s serenity was obliterated in a wave of terror. Ron took a deep breath and looked at him. He’d frozen, mid-chop, and was watching the kitchen doorway. Bloke was jumpy as all hell.

“Ron,” Molly hollered, “I don’t smell dinner!” She came around the corner and squeaked, startled to see Draco Malfoy chopping vegetables in her kitchen. And rather proficiently, judging by the neatly-piled slivers of carrot. 

Frowning at the botanical butchery on the table, she turned to greet Draco with a pat on the shoulder. He flinched, and she silently cursed his cunt of a mother. He set the knife down and backed away from the cutting board, heading toward his bag.

“Draco, dear,” Molly said gently. “Don’t stop on my account. I’d be grateful for the help. I’d rather do the kids’ baths.”

Draco hesitated, eyeing the cutting board and front door in turn. He really did miss cooking. More than he’d realized. And the prospect of serving up a large meal had him chewing his lip in indecision. Once upon a time, it had been his favorite way to spend an afternoon.

“Please,” Molly beseeched, “and save half the carrots for muffins after they’re cut.”

She reached up to tuck his hair behind his ear, fingers skimming to ruffle the back of his head. Her nails began a gentle scratching above the nape of his neck, and his shoulders dropped as he sighed.

“Oh,” he hushed nervously. “Alright.” She’d disarmed him with alarming efficiency, he thought. The Dark Art of Maternal Persuasion.

He couldn’t come up with any great reasons not to stay, other than potential Weasley rejection. He’d brought eagles and owls both, so he didn’t have to worry about the sun going down and bomber owls finding him. Merlin knew he didn’t have anywhere he needed to be. Hardly ever.

By staying, he got to cook in a well-appointed kitchen. For other people. And possibly muffins.

His deliberation was interrupted by a trickle of acerbic French as Fleur appeared in the doorway with a red-headed toddler on her hip, feigning olfactory offense.

He gasped, grateful he hadn’t picked the knife up. The boy looked entirely too much like the auburn-haired boy from his dreams.

 _”Oula! Tu sense le Veela, toubib,”_ Fleur said, waving a hand in front of her nose sarcastically.

“Dubious feather mattress,” he said, switching to English for Ron’s benefit, and waving her off. “And I happen to like the smell.”

She tapped the outside edge of a thumb against the center of her chin, fingers curled, and dipped her head slightly in formal greeting. He froze, the gesture taking a second to register. It had been… four years… give or take, since someone had formally recognized him. He dipped his head in return.

 _”Chut… Je ne suis toubib,_ ” he chided her, smiling in spite of himself. “Just a Death Eater.”

Salazar’s septum, it felt good to be acknowledged as a Healer. Did the magical community outside the UK actually remember his work? Fucking hell, would that be amazing if the rest of the world _didn’t_ want his head on a pike.

 _”Toujours Koàn,”_ Fleur admonished. Draco huffed an embarrassed laugh at the Black family motto turned compliment.

 _”Toujours sympa,”_ he said, giving her a wink and head to toe appraisal. She blushed and set the toddler down to run amok.

High-pitched bickering wafted down the stairs, and she rolled her eyes and headed into the fray. Louis’s wide eyes examined his uncle, seeming to question the wisdom of having been left under the supervision of two men, their beer, a bag of _Bombardas_ , and kitchen knives.

Ron gave Draco a side-long glance. “Did you just hit on my sister-in-law?” he asked in mild disbelief.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “A compliment more than an offer.”

His work on the carrots finished, he moved on to the onions, trying to ignore the insistent, grabby hands on his leg. The boy had wandered over to examine him. 

_“Miam!”_ Louis pipped, little hands opening and closing expectantly. The boy had a fine cut between two fingers on his left hand, and Draco eyed it suspiciously.

 _”Hop là,”_ he exhaled, hoisting the tot onto the counter. _”As-tu faim?”_

Draco kept a hip in front of the hungry toddler, a watchful eye on both the boy’s balance and his knife. A test bite of an apple from a basket drew an appreciative surprised grunt from him, and he sliced it while Lou watched, one tiny hand fisted in Draco's shirt. 

He couldn’t help but inspect the hair-fine cut between the boy’s fingers. The precision and placement didn’t look like a normal toddler injury.

Armed with fistfuls of apple slices, Lou was released to sticky up the kitchen. Ron smiled, pleased someone enjoyed the literal fruits of his labor.

Ron felt Malfoy through the bond, shocked at the sensation of absolutely drowning in contentment. 

“Malfoy, mate,” Ron admitted. “I am not surprised a man caught you a pair of Thestrals.”

Draco hummed in acknowledgement, back turned to Ron as he heated a skillet. Weasley didn’t need to see his eyes water. Damn onions.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

To a Froth

It never stuck, I think you knew.  
To have been born yours, the first real sin.  
The rank disgust, the lines you drew  
They burned clean out what you beat it in.

DLM 2003 Azkaban Infirmary  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	14. Exes and Power Flexes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry, you need to stand up to that Witch Weekly photographer.  
> Harry, you need to keep it together around Malfoy's ex.  
> Harry, you need to not be hanging out with Malfoy's hot ex in a park.  
> Harry, you need to not let Malfoy's hot ex ram memories in your skull.
> 
> Malfoy lies about his lies to his parents. They're still awful.  
> Malfoy is friends with the Gringotts Goblins.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Patchjobs and Playthings

Get the Medic!  
I don’t care if he’s sleeping, find him!  
Get the Medic!  
Sorry, false hope, just a death tic.  
He’s going mad, reassign him.  
He took an oath, go remind him.  
Get the Medic!

DLM 1998 Estonia  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

The guards were both witches again, and curiosity got the better of him.

“Did my parents do something in particular to warrant an all-female guard?” he asked, voice firm, but with an appropriate hint of groveling.

The older one, gray hair buzzed short, turned to him and nodded disdainfully. Great, he thought. Narcissa on the prowl meant Lucius with a scowl, like it always had. Such a lovely marriage. Maybe he could work it into his story of breaking off his fake engagement with Pansy. 

The engagement he still needed to warn her about, but he didn’t have a great way of contacting her. She just showed up every year on his birthday and they proceeded to get breathtakingly drunk. It counted as a tradition.

The door slammed open against the wall, and Narcissa rolled into the room like a storm front. Lucius trailed behind her, lips tight, expression grim. Dread clenched Draco’s gut. 

He’d been hoping to break the news to weeping and wailing, not rage and retribution. His lips parted to greet them, but he didn’t get a chance.

“ _Why haven’t we heard from her parents?_ ” she raged, pacing. Lucius took a seat, but stiffly. The guards watched her carefully, the older one with a hand on a weapon.

“It’s been weeks, Draco. Why haven’t we at least received a letter? Why hasn’t she come to see us?” Narcissa flung questions faster than he could have answered them, though she didn’t seem to expect responses. “Have you moved her into the south wing yet?”

She stopped pacing and her hands gripped the chair across from him. “ _Did you fuck this up again?_ ” she seethed.

He looked to Lucius for some reassurance that she was irrational, but was met with further suspicion. Draco sighed and pushed his chair back, eager for a little more distance than the small room provided.

“She called it off,” he said, and braced himself for the hurricane. This would be his third or fourth botched betrothal, depending on how he counted.

She screamed, wordless, teeth bared, and he exhaled slowly through pursed lips as his ears rang. The guards stepped up behind her as she drew a breath and screamed again, hands still anchored to the chair.

“ _We gave you everything!_ ” she spat, eyes wild, spittle flying. “ _Everything!_ And all we asked is that you settle down! You didn’t even have to properly fuck her, for Gaunt’s sake!”

Her hands slammed down on the table in front of him, and he closed his eyes. Sometimes, surprise blows hurt less than expected ones.

She must have made a move to hit him, because the guards suddenly had her pinned against the wall. Her feet flailed as she tried to kick them, still finding the effort to scream at him.

“I wasted my _life_ raising you, you selfish brat! I _hate_ you! I hate you both! I should have smothered you both in your sleep when I had the chance!” 

The guards marched her out the door, and the silence that followed was deafening. Dread crept up his spine like a hoarfrost as he realized he was alone in a soundproof room with Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius cleared his throat. “We do get the papers, you know.”

Draco nodded. He was well-aware. Personally, he hadn’t read a Daily Prophet since his release. “This betrothal of yours never made the Society page,” he said offhandedly.

Biting his lips, he tried to quantify for himself where they _thought_ the Malfoy family’s place in wizarding society was, exactly. This was either bait, or Lucius really did think they were held in high enough esteem for anyone to give a flying fuck about them. As if he could have a public betrothal and not expect the ceremony to turn into a vigilante-fueled bloodbath.

“I’m on decent speaking terms with the Greengrasses,” Draco lied. “And she with the Notts. We thought discretion was wise.”

Lucius hummed in approval. “Well, return the rings to my vault. Unless you think the Lovegood girl is an option?”

Odd that Lucius knew which rings they’d have chosen, he thought to himself. And that today he knew Luna’s last name when last time he’d conveniently forgotten her existence.

Little escaped the man’s notice, and Draco doubted that he’d believed the whole story with Pansy at all. But lying to Narcissa to get her off their backs was a sport they both partook in as a matter of survival.

Draco shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t go that far. And yes, I’m taking the Azkaban Floo to Gringotts.”

Leaning smugly back in his chair, Lucius smirked. “I won’t keep you, then.”

The door to the visitation room swung open, and he stepped through.

One-hundred and sixty-sixth visit, not that he was counting.

—————————

“Have at it, Basilia.” Harry tried to suppress a shiver as she slid a hand down the line of hair between his navel and groin. “This is the last time.”

“You said that last time, Harry,” she said with a self-satisfied smirk as she used both hands to lay the hair of his lower abdomen smooth.

He frowned at her overly familiar use of his name. Disinterested, he watched her work on him with some tiny spelled comb. She was fairly attractive, really. Bobbed blonde hair, clear blue eyes. Pity she held all the appeal of Baba Yaga. 

He knew what she was trying to accomplish, and it had nothing to do with artfully-laid body hair. Thankfully, his body wasn’t responding this time. Might have something to do with him allowing her to give him an awkward, toothy blowjob last time. 

She grinned up at him, and he flinched. “I think you’ve accomplished all you can down there.” He took a step back from her, and her pout fell flat. She stood, packing away a grooming kit.

“Alright. You know the drill,” she said over her shoulder. “Go into the light, Potter.”

Death references, he thought. Hilarious. 

Merlin, this might be his least favorite building in the world. It was a perfectly nice room. Light wood floors, white walls, high windows. His only associations with it were intense hunger, exhausted early mornings, intrusion, embarrassment, and begrudging duty. Not unlike the Dursley house, really.

A shadow passed through the open archway to the hall, and a husky contralto voice murmured a greeting. Oh, thank Godric, he thought. Connie was his favorite reporter. She’d earned his undying loyalty five years ago when a photographer copped a feel, and she’d fired the woman on the spot. Brutally.

She was the first woman he’d thought of a couple weeks ago when Ron had suggested he was dating pensioners. He’d always wondered if she were married. Or had kids. Or maybe a cat and a house full of amazing artwork. That seemed most likely.

He turned and watched the two women discussing their plans as Connie wound her hair up into an effortless chignon and secured it with two long silver pins from her bag. She slipped glasses on and critiqued Basilia’s set, lighting, and general existence. Basilia withered, and Harry tamped down a smirk.

If Connie, Hermione, and McGonagall ever found themselves in a room alone together, he wasn’t sure what would happen, but it would be something wonderful that changed the course of wizard history. And that idea made him _want_ to take his pants off.

“Harry, love, put your glasses back on,” she instructed, handing them to him. “Baz, you should have told him to take them off an hour ago if you didn’t want lines. You’ll just have to deal with the glare.”

“I… Yeah, sorry.” Basilia practically cowered. “I didn’t know you were coming in early.”

Harry stood awkwardly on the short white platform. It had been the site of recurring nightmares through his early twenties. Now, it just made him nervous and eager to leave. Something in his eye made him blink rapidly while he situated his glasses back in place.

“I wasn’t, but I’m doing the feature interview, and he requested a tour before being handed over to your tender mercies,” she jabbed, rubbing an eye behind her glasses. “And so I figured I would make myself inconvenient here until he arrives.”

 _Thank you_ , Harry mouthed when Basilia’s back was turned. Connie’s eyebrows rose in questioning. She looked more than willing to throw another handsy witch out on the curb.

Harry pursed his lips, shook his head, and rolled his eyes, taking some blame for Basilia’s forwardness with him. Catching on, she smirked and wagged a finger at him.

A chime sounded, and Connie excused herself with a firm, “I’ll be around” directed at Basilia.

“Alright. Harry, we’re just going to throw some variety together, mostly for stock.” She fiddled with equipment. “You know, because this is your _last_ time here.”

———————————

With a stumble, Draco stepped out of the Gringotts lobby Floo. Not eager to draw notice from the witches and wizards going about their business, he drew up his cloak hood. He forced his feet to move faster than his gut commanded, and shuffled into a side hall to rap on an office door.

Gringotts was one of the few places he felt secure. Surprising, given that several Goblins had died in his family’s home during the war. But, according to Burgock, who was by far the most hostile toward wizards, _Goblins have very long memories. And the House of Black has otherwise been a friend to Goblinkind._

He waited, listening to the shuffling of papers inside the room, but no one answered. With a smirk, he took a newspaper-wrapped sea bass out of his bag and chucked it through the post slot. It landed inside the office with a thick thud, followed by the scuffle of shoes.

A soft hum of appreciation filtered through the door, and he smiled. Good gifts were always worth the effort. The door unlatched with a click, and he slipped in, ignoring the sound of smacking lips and rending flesh.

“Little Blackblood, finally come to earn your keep?” Odbert’s voice croaked from the low desk.

Draco shoved his hood back and took in the office. Odbert hadn’t changed it much since being elected bank President. A very democratic process, which made him vow to learn more about Goblin politics.

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t come to die on the filthy linoleum in the Curse Breaker department. Though bleeding to death on it would do that floor good,” Draco said sarcastically.

The art of insult-inquiry and his family’s admiration of shiny objects had earned him the trust of the Goblins as a teen, and he quite enjoyed it. Turning over a nation-state’s worth of Goblin-made silverwork had only endeared him to them further.

“Pity,” Odbert replied, swallowing a chunk of bass. “You’d smell better getting the hair singed off you. They’ve been dealing with some rather impossible Dark exploding curses.”

“Do your incompetent boobs complain of a high-pitched whine before exploding all over the decrepit rooms you call labs?” Draco inquired, thinking.

“Ah, surprisingly perceptive behind that matted mess you call a head of hair,” Odbert retorted.

Draco fought the urge to touch his hair, but knew the conversation would stop if he did. One of many rules.

“You can feign competence and tell them your brilliant mind deduced a strategy by which they submerge the items in hydrogen peroxide while Breaking,” Draco responded carefully. “From a Muggle shop. The higher the concentration the better.”

Odbert looked up at him in shock, but he refused to look down. Another rule. Never look down at a Goblin. Never, ever kneel to speak to one on eye-level. Always assume the Goblin’s eyes are roughly at your eye-level above the Goblin’s actual head.

“Damn you wizards and your slimy tricks, Blackblood,” the Goblin spat, jotting down a note and sending it flying out the post slot to the Curse Breakers. “My Head Curse-Breaker is planning on retiring in two years, if your lazy Pureblood ass sees fit to work a day in its life.”

Ah, this was a tricky one, Draco thought. How to politely decline a very desirable job offer while being insulting?

“I think my lazy Pureblood ass would be rather distracting to that jizz-dripping manwhore you call a husband and Treasurer,” Draco ventured, trying to hide his trepidation.

Startling him, Odbert slammed the half-eaten fish down on his desk, collapsing forward in loud guffaws. His laughter was contagious, and Draco found himself smiling in response.

“Oh, Trasgu’s tits, boy,” Odbert sighed, dabbing his eyes. “What brings you in, you little bastard?”

————————————

“Harry, stop rubbing your eyes,” Basilia snipped, squinting. “It’s just dusty in here or something.”

He rolled his eyes instead, which she caught on camera. Lovely. This was supposed to be a short shoot, but it felt like she wasn’t going to let him go until someone made her. She could have at least warmed the room up before she told him to strip.

“Alright,” she said, putting her camera down. “Want to lose the skivvies and wrap up?”

“Not even a little,” he said, frowning. She pushed this every fucking time.

“I saw the headlines, Harry.” She busied herself switching lenses. “It would sure suck if Robards sent you back here for a full shoot.”

Dust tickled his eye again, and he took his glasses off to demonstrably rub it. Fuck her admonishments and her implied threat. He was hungry, and cold, and insulted, and more than ready to leave. Gods, both eyes itched like hell. 

Connie’s throaty voice drifted round the corner, and Harry blinked tears from his eyes to look for her. “Rowena’s rut, Harry, you’re still here?” she clucked, staring daggers at Basilia, who had the good sense to stay silent. 

Behind her trailed an enormous monolith of a man. He had to be over six-and-a-half feet tall, Harry estimated. He was quietly taking in the high ceilings and blank walls of the room while Harry watched. The man had dark brown, almost black hair, swept back on top and shaved short on the sides. His perfectly chiseled jaw worked slowly, chewing a piece of gum. 

He was dressed for sport. Grey track pants clung indecently to a muscular backside, and a tattered hoodie hung from broad shoulders. He balanced lightly on the balls of his feet. Whether out of grace or habit, it was hard to tell. His eyes turned to watch Basilia intently.

“Fucking hell, Connie,” she fumed, scrubbing her eyes. “Can we open the windows or something?”

The man’s gaze settled on the floor in front of Harry. Basilia straightened and went back to her equipment. Connie left him standing in the threshold to flick spells at the windows, levering them down. A cool draft skittered through the room, and Harry shivered.

“Better, Baz?” Connie asked. She turned to address the men in turn. “Harry Potter, Magnus Falk. Magnus, Harry.”

Falk made no move to greet him, and Harry was quietly grateful. Maybe he could just slip out. He stepped down, and a deep rumbling voice vibrated through the room. “I’d like Potter to stay, if he’s willing. Basilia,” he said, turning to stare at her chest. “You get ten minutes.”

Harry had expected a gruff Scandinavian accent, but his voice was actually rather pleasant. The gentle up-lilt to his syllables combined with a soft rounding of consonants and a distinctive sing-song cadence was surprising. It was hard to imagine him yelling at his players across a field. Maybe he didn’t need to, if Malfoy’s descriptions of his Legilimency were accurate.

“But for feature articles we usually do a-“ she countered.

“I don’t care.” The muscles in his jaw worked quietly. “I’ll do what you want for ten minutes, within reason. That’s enough for you to get what you need, and for me to sell season tickets. Including Potter would be good publicity. If he wants.”

Connie nodded, smiling. “We can do that. Harry, what do you think?”

“Uhm, I guess. Seems kind of random, though,” he admitted, rubbing his hands up and down his arms.

An intense warming spell emanated from Falk's direction, and Harry kicked himself for not having thought of that. Turning, he saw the man was unceremoniously stripping out of his hoodie, t-shirt, and sweatpants. Blinking dust out of his eye again, he watched the shirt pop over his head.

Harry’s throat caught when he saw Malfoy’s tattoo snaking up Falk’s arm. Good Godric, it was exactly the same design, but the whorls and flourishes were unique.

He gasped, eyes suddenly on fire. Then, in an instant, they were fine.

“I’ll gather some blurbs and try to tie it in,” Connie muttered, looking at her notes from interviewing Magnus during their tour of the building. “If I ask something you don’t want to answer, feel free to tell me to fuck off, gentlemen.”

Falk huffed in amusement on his way to the platform, and Harry smiled. He could never tell Connie to fuck off.

What the fuck had just happened to his eyes, though? It had felt intrusive, and intentional. _Legilimancy_. He slammed all the Occclumency barriers in place that he could muster. One did not complete Auror training without it.

Falk approached him like an oncoming tsunami. Roaring power, momentum, and sheer indifference. The man was undeniably gorgeous, maybe even more so due to his apathy. 

He still hadn’t even looked at Harry, which was unexpected. Most people, regardless of attraction, would fall all over themselves for a look at him in nothing but a pair of Auror-red boxer briefs.

Falk was clad in scandalously tiny black pants with a small scarlet Bats logo on one hip. They left utterly nothing to the imagination. Dark hair flowed upward from them, narrowing to a fine line before flaring out neatly across his chest. He was rather well-proportioned for a man his height, Harry thought, neither lanky nor barrel-chested. Well-muscled and lean, but not quite the cutting physique Harry kept.

He felt Falk teasing around the edges of his mind as he stepped up. He was smart enough to not try to barge his way through an Auror’s barriers. That would be a one-way ticket to Azkaban. 

Satisfied with her lighting and settings, Basilia beckoned Falk to stand behind Harry. “Alright, boys. Scoot in close and play nice!”

Harry scoffed, and Falk shifted closer to him. The warming charm was a doozie, and Harry wondered if they were common in Northern Europe. It was tempting to lean into that heat, and he felt himself being lulled by it.

Connie set a chair down off to the side, readying her questions. “Okay, kittens. Leading questions for canned responses. And remember, ‘Fuck off, Connie’ is an acceptable response.”

Harry smiled, and heard Basilia’s shutter click several times.

“Harry, any truth to rumors you’re in line to become the next Head Auror?” Connie said nonchalantly.

“Con, what gives? That’s no softball,” Harry said, worrying his lip, earning him more shutter snaps. He sighed. “I’ve been told there are multiple qualified candidates for the position.”

“Safe answer,” she noted. “Coach Falk, what plans are in the works for rehabilitating the Ballycastle Quidditch facilities?”

Falk chewed his gum and thought carefully, turning and adjusting as Basilia commanded. “We hope to be done with fundraising by the end of this year, and break ground on a new complex well outside the city in spring. Next summer will be the last season on the historic field.”

“Lovely. I’ll add a line encouraging ticket sales,” she said, scribbling. “And Coach, any truth to the rumors you’re dating the Harpies Seeker, Jonathan Augustus?”

“No, his broom handling is sloppy and his technique lacking,” Falk stated dryly.

Connie barked a laugh and dropped her quill. Harry suppressed a snigger till it escaped as a snort, and turned to look up at Falk. 

“Seriously? Quidditch sex puns?”

Falk smiled sheepishly. “I have my moments.”

Tentatively, Falk’s fingertips settled discreetly on Harry’s lower back, and he fought to keep his face neutral. Gods, it was the same hand with the black vines twining down it. The memory of Malfoy’s hand holding his hand, lips on his skin, made him draw a shuddering deep breath.

“And Harry, similar for you. On the hunt for a lucky witch?” Connie asked, not looking up.

Harry took a deep breath, daring the pufferfish, hopefully for the last time.

“Or lucky wizard.” And he left it at that. Connie’s eyebrows rose, but she didn’t look up from her notes. 

Falk’s voice rumbled low behind him. “I’ve been told I’m rather good luck.” Warm fingers splayed out over Harry's hip, most of his hand caressing Harry’s skin. Goosebumps flooded up his back and arms. His palm was incredibly warm and felt divine.

The absence of the shutter clicking was claustrophobic. Basilia had frozen, half-kneeling, camera in hand. She licked her lips, eyes raking up both men anew. 

He could practically watch her melt into her knickers, Harry thought disdainfully. She took a deep breath and resumed instructing them and shifting her own position.

Connie broke the silence. “How big a headline do you want that to be, love?" she asked. “Because it could end up its own issue.”

Harry thought hard, distracted by the subtle stroking of Falk’s thumb. “Just put it in as a caption and see what happens. I don’t want it to be a reason anybody buys it. Just a bonus.”

Connie nodded appreciatively. “Bold move. I like it.”

Falk’s hand slid up to the middle of Harry’s back, and he instinctively arched into the touch. He couldn’t help but imagine the tattooed hand between his shoulders was Malfoy’s. Long, elegant fingers, delicate wrists, barely-there arm hair. Harry shook his head, focusing on Basilia’s instructions.

The prickling buzz outside his mental walls intensified dramatically, and he leaned away from Falk, but the touch on his back followed. Basilia was pantomiming a pose for him, but he realized he couldn’t see her. 

The center of his vision had gone black. Before panic could set in, words surfaced in his sight.

 _WHERE DID YOU HIDE HIM, AUROR?_

The words blazed through his mind as Falk’s fingers skimmed lightly up and down Harry’s spine, out of view of the women. Blinking, he turned toward Falk, following Basilia’s cues.

“ _What?_ ” he hissed at Falk, whose touch had slid back down to Harry’s hip.

_YOU WANT TO PLAY GAMES? I LIKE GAMES._

His vision had barely returned before it faded again. 

“I didn’t hide-“ Harry cut off with a gasp, as the room was replaced with Malfoy’s face in rapt ecstasy. 

_Blonde hair slicked back with sweat as he panted. His brow softly furrowed, eyes closed. He licked his lips, the flush in his cheeks rising. Merlin, he was exquisite._

The projection dissolved into the room again.

 _WHERE IS HE?_ Falk's words scorched through him, and he gritted his teeth.

“What the fu-“ Harry attempted, dreading evidence of his arousal being photographed, but the platform disappeared again.

 _MAYBE YOU LIKE THIS BETTER?_

_Malfoy was…cooking. He looked much like he had in Potions class, except that he was happy. He swayed to music Harry couldn’t hear while he stirred something, then turned off the heat. Contentment was written in his soft smile. Still swaying, he walked closer, shoulders moving counter to his hips, and he was singing. It was heart-wrenchingly adorable._

The room came back into focus, and Basilia was barking at him for wasting her time.

_WHERE IS HE?_

“Sorry, Basilia,” he said unconvincingly. “I’m just hungry.”

 _FINE, POTTER. BUT YOU WON’T LIKE THE NEXT ONE._ The words charred through his vision.

_The platform melted into a tile floor, and he was looking at himself, but much younger._

_And gods below, the terror in his veins was overwhelming. His heart pounded in his chest. Malfoy’s chest. He wasn’t sure if he was breathing. A wall of mirrors and sinks to his right cast Malfoy’s reflection back at him. His mind was reeling._

_He wanted to beg, and scream, and cry, and above all, he wanted someone to just let him stop. Make him stop._

_But he leveled Malfoy’s wand._

_“Sectumse-‘_

“Stop,” Harry croaked, and the memory evaporated. “Not here, okay?”

Godric, not that. Anything but that memory. Seeing himself so unhinged was awful, and he hated knowing Malfoy remembered him like that.

He’d been suspicious of Falk in the deaths of the Aurors and the man in the bar, and this all but confirmed it. And Falk had done all of this without missing a cue from Basilia. Like it was little more than breathing for him.

Falk’s subdued smile and gentle lilt belied the monstrous powerhouse he truly was. He continued posing, like he hadn’t just popped an Auror’s mind in his mouth and rolled it around like a fucking lemon drop. 

What the fuck _was_ this man? How could he shove Malfoy’s memory into someone else’s head without breaking their barriers?

It was a heady combination, and Harry wasn’t sure if he was terrified, aroused, or both. Both, it seemed, looking down.

“Who’s willing to go full monty today?” Basilia oozed, licking her lips. Gods below, Harry hated this woman. He glared at her and stepped away from Falk and off the platform.

Pausing, Falk replied, “How much does a nude centerfold increase sales, Connie?”

Surprise and delight shone from her. “On average, twenty percent.”

 _Connie, Hermione, and McGonagall_ , Harry mused, eager to get his clothes on before Basilia found an excuse to approach him.

“Throw in an ad for Bats box seats,” Falk countered.

“Quarter-page for four issues,” Connie offered, rather thrilled by his competence.

“Deal.” Falk slid his underwear off as Harry buttoned his jeans, openly watching. 

Proportional again, he thought, stooping to pick up his t-shirt. He did have to give Falk credit, though. For as awkward as he had seemed standing around fully clothed, when he posed, he fucking owned it. 

Basilia had him kneeling, knees spread, with a Snitch levitating at crotch height. He leaned back on one hand invitingly, biting his lip. She did have a knack for borderline pornography, it seemed. Harry had never envied a Snitch before. 

Wiggling into his shoes, he hastened a goodbye wave to Connie, and turned to leave.

Falk’s subdued baritone chased him. “Slow down, Potter. We have a breakfast date, do we not?”

—————————

Magnus Falk was… different, Harry concluded, blowing on a cup of coffee, watching him. Not bad different. But… odd. And wholly _not_ who he’d expected if he had to pick someone for Malfoy to nearly marry.

Harry was sitting on a park bench, which was not warm yet mid-morning, in Muggle London, watching Falk negotiate with a food truck worker. The vendor had warned that it would take a half-hour to warm up his fryer, and another fifteen to actually make the chips. Falk told him that was fine. He’d wait.

He really wanted chips, Harry surmised. Not anything from the several cafes and stands that were open around them. Leave it to Malfoy to endear himself to a man even pickier than himself.

Payment complete, Falk turned to walk to the bench. He walked and talked with a halting, liquid precision Harry found both fascinating and alarming. Like at any point Falk’s words or body would tumble forward unhindered, but for the careful tethers he had on them. Entirely different from Malfoy’s languid, effortless cadence.

Their affectations were practically opposite, as well. Malfoy’s indifferent mask tended to dissolve when he was comfortable in private. Falk seemed to take mannerisms out of a bag and wear them around when he’d interacted with the vendor and the Witch Weekly staff. But alone with Harry, his face stayed vaguely annoyed.

Insecurity tugged at Harry, and he wondered if Falk had read enough of his thoughts to actively dislike him already. Quite possibly. Or he’d despised the photo shoot and Basilia as much as he had.

Falk stared at the dewy bench for a moment, took a handful of napkins out of his hooded sweatshirt, and wiped the seat dry before sitting. He made no move to speak, and Harry was irked as to why they were sitting here together. So, he took it upon himself to start the conversation.

“So… Did Connie warn you about Basilia while she gave you the tour?” Harry asked, still impressed by how he’d absolutely shut her down.

Falk thought for a moment and turned to look at Harry’s chest. “No, you and she were both very loud,” he lilted, focusing on Harry’s chin. “Loud from a Legilimency standpoint.”

“Oh…” Harry intoned, pieces clicking into place. He took a sip of coffee and tried to recall everything he’d thought about.

“Her husband doesn’t like her blowjobs, either.” Falk said softly, a smirk disappearing behind a styrofoam cup of tea.

A bark of laughter sent a dribble of coffee down Harry’s chin, and Falk snickered.

There it is, Harry thought. There’s the common ground between him and Malfoy. Snarky bastards, the both of them. Reassured, Harry decided to dive right in to the reason they were sitting on a bench waiting for chips from a truck that probably wasn’t even supposed to be serving food yet.

“So, Malfoy,” he started. “The Ministry didn’t hide him. He hid himself. And I’m responsible for his safety, so I’m not going to tell you where to find him. But I can take a message back to him for you.”

Falk’s tea hesitated on its way to his mouth, and Harry’s eye itched. He set his coffee down to deal with it, and it had reached a steady burn spreading from one eye to the other by the time he got his glasses off.

“Godric be damned,” he muttered. “Falk. Falk!”

The other man’s eyebrows rose, snapping to. The burning disappeared.

“Sorry.” Falk stated coldly. “Habit.”

Harry slid his glasses back on and picked up his coffee. Falk looked either deep in thought or rather peeved at something in the distance. Harry wasn’t sure which, until he spoke.

“Who is Draco hiding from?” Falk requested. The man in the food truck was yelling at someone else in the food truck, and Harry fought looking at them.

“Wizards. Vigilantes, basically,” Harry summarized. The political factions that saw Malfoy’s death as the end or beginning of an era were a complicated lot.

“Why do vigilantes want to kill a Koan acolyte?” he rumbled.

Harry frowned, the phrase not making sense at all. “A what?”

The fingers of Falk’s unoccupied hand danced a dysrhythmic jig on his thigh, and Harry thought it looked suspiciously like Malfoy’s movements while healing Ron. And Magnus had scars between his fingers, now that Harry was looking. As many or more than Malfoy.

“You’re in charge of his safety, and you don’t know what he is,” Falk stated, not asking, nearly accusing.

Harry didn’t love the tone, and he looked up from his coffee to challenge Falk. His eyes widened as Falk pinned him with the full weight of completely black irises.

Falk’s free hand came up to cradle Harry’s jaw, warm and smooth, and he fell headlong into those black drowning pools, absently noting a faint click.

———————————

_BREATHE, POTTER_

Distantly, he felt Falk’s fingers on his chin, steadying his head. If his eyes were open, he couldn’t tell. The world was inky blackness, and he was slowly sinking in cool water. It should have been terrifying, but the gentle pressure around him was pleasant.

Images cascaded in neat lines around him in a globe, joining into groups, sorting and resorting. It was the center of a hive. Chaotic at first, rigid organization and patterns surfacing gradually.

 _What_ are _you?_ Harry thought, more to himself. 

Images with white-blonde hair disappeared into each other to his side. Fragments of sky and brooms merged near his feet. Water, deep and dark, in moving visions, piled above him ominously. 

_HALF-RUSALKA_ came Falk’s voice, as it had before. In his mind, the lilting cadence and stop-start pattern were gone. His rolling, pitching accent was rougher without it.

The term made no sense to Harry. Falk must have sensed his confusion before he could condense into a thought.

_WATCH. KEEP BREATHING._

_Women, all drifting underwater, long dark hair flowing in the current, pale skin lit by limpid filtered moonlight. Enormous black eyes beckoning. Treasured secrecy and quiet power._

_Singing gently on the riverbank. Men approaching, wading into the water._

_Men floating, face down in weak morning light._

_BREATHE, POTTER._

_A living room, cluttered and comfortable. Worn and well-loved furniture. A simple fireplace. Walls covered by books. A tall man, gait and face identical to Falk, but blonde. A thick rug in front of the fireplace. A single black rose woven into the plush weave. A dark contrast to the yellows and reds. Pride and trust._

_A woman in a chair, red hair and blue eyes. Two older children with strawberry-blonde hair on her lap. The woman smiles and holds a hand out. Snuggling into her dress, home._

Concentrating on his lungs, wherever they’d gone, he forced them to move.

_A desk covered in papers, the blond man leaning over it in the dead of night. A small knife with fresh blood next to quills. Curiosity and certainty._

_The man settles him on his lap, where he fits comfortably. A tiny, sparkling blade the size of his own little thumb appears. Minuscule onyx eyes adorn a beautiful face on the handle. A drop of blood between his chubby fingers. The larger knife touching the drop. A gut-deep pull, and the blond man smiles like the sun._

Distantly, he felt the warmth of the cup still in his hand, and could taste Falk’s approval of his breathing. The submersion had become soothing, blocking out the distractions of the park.

_Falk on a riverbank, younger, lanky. Falk wading into the water. An ethereally beautiful woman rising up to meet him. A gentle embrace, his head on her shoulder, her hands stroking his back. Longing and resolve._

_Other women surfacing from the murky water, sharp teeth bared. Falk backpedaling while the woman reaches out to him. The angry women surrounding the kind one, pulling her gently away._

_BREATHE_

_Jet-black iron Bludgers like onyx eyes, skimming. Bruises. So many bruises, deep and angry._

_Cracked wooden bats and eager challenge. A Bludger ricocheting from his bat and spiking up toward his Seeker. A body free-falling, melting into deep, dark water. Blood dripping between fingers. Healed skin slick under hot hands. Blue eyes snapping open, startled and searching. Uniforms discarded on a locker room floor. Steam and tile, relief and release._

_SLOWLY, LIKE FLOATING, POTTER._

The images faded, and he was back in the hive. Visions of himself had surfaced in the controlled chaos. Him in Quidditch kit. Him in robes. Him leveling a wand. Malfoy’s memories, he realized. 

They burned brighter than others, colors vivid, and muffled sound followed them. Looking around, he noticed a large number of the projections drifting purposefully by were unusually bright, and the soft murmurs of them melded into the nondescript hum.

 _YES. HE IS NOTHING IF NOT INTENSE._. Falk must have noticed his focus. 

Anxiety hummed through Harry, but he didn’t have time for it to register, as one of those blazing images enveloped him. 

_He was sprinting, lungs burning. Eyes burning. Everything was burning. Flaming trees crashed down behind him as he leaped over downed branches. Gods, everything hurt._

Harry’s breath hitched. _IT WON’T HARM YOU, POTTER_

_The flames were catching up, a beating wind chasing him. Fucking dragon fire. Always fucking dragon fire. Where was Potter on a broom this time?_

_Salazar help him, he’d been running forever. His feet ached, and his vision was blurry._

_Dodging rocks, he saw a clearing approaching and hesitated, but the crackling embers behind him urged him forward. The clearing came into focus, and a line of red robes rose to the forefront. Flames belched from serpentine silhouettes behind them._

_Sickly green light drifted toward him, and he balked, swearing under his breath. His right hand drew a small silver knife from his pocket and slashed between every finger on the opposite hand. Blood soaked into the dingy cuff of a formerly white shirt._

_His lips moved frantically, no time for rhyme or meter. A high-pitched whine shook his bones, and he turned around and ran back into the fire._

_Skin blistered, peeled, regrew, and molted all over again as he ran blind. His mouth filled with the bitter soot coughed up by his burning and healing lungs as the tissue turned over. Wryly, he thought he’d love to be on the wrong end of his father’s Crucios right now._

Harry gasped, suddenly back in the hive. The searing pain in his lungs was gone. Godric’s glistening glans, that was fucking terrifying. His heart hammered in his chest as he tried to slow his breathing.

Projections lined themselves up in front of him, and dread crept in. The next one showed flickers of red robes and fire again.

 _Falk?_ he thought to what felt like empty air. _I don’t want to do that again._

Disappointment and condescension radiated from everywhere. _SEE WHAT YOUR MINISTRY DID, THEN I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT HE HAD BECOME._

That sounded very ominous, Harry mused, fully aware Falk could hear his thoughts. This couldn’t be worse than burning a terrified teenager out of a forest with dragons. Faintly, he felt Falk’s cynical amusement.

_Bodies littered a Quidditch field. Small bodies in uniforms. Flames lit rising smoke in the dark like Vesuvius reborn. Durmstrang was burning. Not just the castle, but the whole town surrounding it, too._

_His field of vision snapped to the side, tumbling to the grass. Boots and hems of red robes drifted in front of him. One reared back and kicked him square in the chest, cracking several ribs. He spat blood on the grass and glared up at the men._

Harry took a deep breath, thinking he was grateful Falk’s memory was mostly visual. Malfoy’s had been brutally immersive.

_The men were screaming at him, and he was shouting back. He tried to rise, but the taller one kicked him back down._

_Sound crackled through, and he heard someone else say, “If he’s not gonna talk, he can choke on a fucking broomstick. I think he might like that, though.”_

_The men laughed, and two of them approached him with brooms from a pile. The third man laid a body bind on him and left, refusing to be a witness. Falk struggled futilely._

Merlin, Harry thought, this was nothing like anything he’d seen as an Auror.

_NOT YET, PERHAPS._

_The two men were discussing something while he fumed on the ground. Blood Magic now would get him executed. Tentatively, he whispered a lick of power at their mental shields. Weak. He slipped in and observed their thoughts._

_Falk’s mutilated body was in both. Dying. Slowly. One had a litany of illegal torture curses he’d picked up and was eager to try._

_The other wanted him naked and flayed. There was a broomstick flickering in his mind. That was enough._

_Falk crashed through the man’s mind like an attack dog, all teeth and claws, shredding and burning. The tall one screamed and clutched at his eyes, blood streaming from his nose and ears. With one last slash, he severed the knowledge of breathing from the man and watched him drop._

_The shorter Auror stared at him, wide-eyed, and turned to run, but he inundated the man’s mind with his own, turning his body back around and walking it to his own side. He riffled through his memories for the binding curse. Finding it, he raised the Auror’s wand and undid it. He rose to stand in front of him, drinking his terror in._

_Falk saw himself through the other man’s eyes. His brown hair floated in an unfelt wind. The whites of his eyes had bled to unflinching alien black._

_Power roiled through him, finally unchecked. Blood ran down his cheek from a cut, and he scraped it into his hand, reveling in the electric hum. Slowly, letting the Auror watch him with immobile eyes, he spread a line of blood across the man’s forehead._

_He could feel the man struggling against him. The poor bastard thought Ministry Occlumancy could protect him, and it was pitiful._

Harry took a deep breath, remembering he still had a physical body. Falk shouldn’t be able to do any of this. 

_I BELIEVE YOUR CONFIDENTIALITY IS IMPLIED_. Harry thought his agreement, though not eager to continue. _ESPECIALLY GOING FORWARD_

_Falk extended his bloody hand to the field where dozens of children lay wounded and crying, and dozens more lay unmoving. He sank, gently, so gently, into the minds of his scared, sobbing, bleeding students. He pulled their pain into threads, wove them into a burning, seething rope, and coiled it in the Auror’s head._

_Relaxing his hold, he let the man scream, high, wordless, and panicked. The Auror made a weak effort at wandless magic, but Falk snuffed it._

_Odd, though. He could feel the Auror’s signature; acid and dry grass. He wrapped himself around that. Sliding himself between the man’s magic and the very cells of his brain. Carefully loosening the hold, he teased it from the screaming man and offered it to his students._

_The children quieted, and he let the threads evaporate between them and the Auror. Several of the children got up and ran away, healed. Interesting._

_The magical signature was gone from the Auror, and Falk released his hold on him. He pointed his wand at Falk, but nothing happened. Falk laughed mirthlessly, and horror filled the Auror’s face._

_The powerless man was no longer a threat, but he’d seen entirely too much. Falk filtered back into the man’s mind, melting through thoughts and memories, leaving nothing solid. Blood streamed from the Auror’s eyes and nose. Watery eyes rolled back, and he dropped dead._

_Falk turned and walked to the field._

Harry drifted back to the dark space full of flickering memories. His hands were shaking on the park bench, or he was imagining them doing so.

_RISE SLOWLY, POTTER._

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Forest Pyre

Fuck Dragon Fire…  
If only I’d have thought to bring…

Fuck! Dragon Fire!?  
This crackle? My funeral pyre.  
The lyrics that I’d meant to bring.  
All the refrains I’d hoped to sing…

Fuuuuuuck… Dragon Fire.

DLM 1999 Russia  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **New chapters posted on Fridays at 5 pm, Chicago time.**
> 
> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	15. Whore Crux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut.  
> Harry has some BIG feels about child welfare in wizarding society.  
> Harry has some big, hard, throbbing feelings about sexy memories Malfoy's ex shoves in his head.  
> Harry has some big, embarrassing feelings in a park restroom with his dick out.
> 
> Malfoy gets invited to the Goblin Gala, but he could only really attend if he takes his Auror for transportation.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Marionette

Strings cut,  
“Such a slut.”

I swear to heaven, I’ll burn you down.  
“Just do your job, you fucking clown.”

I hope you all die, you all get fucked.  
“Nobody cares, with all the dicks you’ve sucked.”

DLM Russia 2003  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

Weak beams of daylight filtered through the darkness above Harry, and his gaze followed them. Gentle warmth played across his skin as he stepped into the rays. Turning his face up to the light, it grew steadily brighter, until he realized he was feeling sunshine against his eyelids.

He opened his eyes to find Falk casually sipping his tea.

“All here?” Falk asked, dropping his hand from Harry’s chin.

Too quickly, Harry nodded, thoroughly disoriented. He’d just been in the middle of a massacre, and before that a forest fire, and now he was sitting on a park bench on a quiet weekday morning.

His earlier ham and egg sandwich threatened to rise, and he took a long swig of coffee. It was unexpectedly still hot.

“How long did that take?” he asked Falk.

“Two minutes?” Falk estimated. “Maybe three.” Falk’s lilting, stilted cadence was back, and it was oddly endearing after having felt him roar through minds like a force of nature.

“That was… fuck.” Harry rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. “That was worse than the attack on Hogwarts,” he admitted slowly. 

And it had been. People had died at Hogwarts, but not in numbers like that. And the castle had been heavily damaged, but it hadn’t gone up in its own pyre and taken a town with it.

And… it hadn’t happened at the hands of his fellow Aurors.

“The UK is a dangerous place,” Falk said, like it was common sentiment. “Your Ministry doesn’t exactly make it safer.” Harry stared at him, not understanding. His eye itched, and he glared at Falk. “You have no idea, do you?” Falk asserted. “You don’t know how corrupt your Ministry is. Or how poorly it protects its people. Or what the rest of the world thinks of you.”

“I… what?” Harry stammered. Falk’s words rang a bell. Something Ron had ranted about before he quit Auror training.

“You’re an Auror. Have you ever protected a child?” Falk asked, attention going back to the food truck.

“I… I guess I’ve never been assigned a case like that,” Harry admitted, surprised.

“Why?” Falk led, condescension thick. 

Falk’s tone was downright insolent, and Harry was starting to get angry. Ron’s screed came rushing back to him.

_”But it’s not ILLEGAL, Harry! Can you believe that bullshit! It’s perfectly legal to treat children like that!”_.

Ron had been following a pair of Senior Aurors who’d been called to investigate an orphanage for magical children. He’d said the conditions were horrendous.

Gods, he’d fumed about that for months. He still occasionally did if he got enough Firewhiskey in him. Harry’s eye itched, and he kicked Falk’s shoe.

Falk withdrew his foot and scooted back from Harry, not at all appreciative of the sudden contact.

“Sorry.” Harry said, embarrassed. It hadn’t been a real kick. “I see what you’re getting at.”

“I doubt you do,” Falk retorted. “Most of the magical world banned orphanages and outlawed child abuse centuries ago. Your Ministry has repeatedly chosen _not_ to. Ponder that.”

Falk didn’t stand so much as lurch upward bodily and harness the movement into a choppy, quick walk. He was headed to the food truck, where the man was lifting a basket out of a fryer. He arrived at the window precisely when the man turned toward it with his chips. Legilimancy like that was eerie.

Uncomfortable heat burned in his throat as he mulled Falk’s words. Not the pufferfish. The other one. The bigger one. The dragon-sized one.

The one that asked why the Ministry and Dumbledore had left him with the Dursleys. 

And why they’d sent him back there every break. Why couldn’t they have just given him to Molly and Arthur as a baby? Why did they make him find them on his own?

It was that thick, choking rage that asked why The Boy Who Lived had been forced to become The Chosen One, and not The Protected One, The Hidden One, The Sheltered One. 

It was the storming fury that rose every time he remembered how many times he’d wanted to crawl back into a spider-infested cupboard and never come out. And how much he _despised_ the world for ever making him feel that way.

That familiar, clandestine sympathy that gagged him when he thought about how much he understood the rage that came with being an abandoned half-blood in a society that felt little to no obligation toward them. He’d never told anyone, not even Ron, that he _understood_ Voldemort’s animosity.

Merlin, he thought, swallowing thickly, that wasn’t something he’d planned on dredging up today.

Falk returned, paper tray of glistening hot chips cradled almost lovingly in his hands. Carefully setting them in the middle of the bench, he sat back down.

“Loud,” he remarked. “But you should talk to Draco about that sometime.”

“About what?” Harry asked, eying the chips.

“Being pigs led to the slaughter instead of children.” Falk ignored his gaze.

“I… You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” Harry grumped, thoroughly not appreciating Falk’s naming the issue.

“Potter,” he started, pinning Harry with his gaze. “I see all the things people hide. Even when I try not to. There’s a small amount of saliva on these chips because that man’s angry his son has a husband and he saw me touch you. That’s the world I move through.”

Harry dropped the chip he’d been in the process of sneaking. Even though he knew he couldn’t actually sneak anything past Falk.

Falk looked away, relaxing a touch as he did. Sensing an opportunity, Harry pursued the change in topic. Thus far, he only had Weasley opinions, which were heavily biased in his favor.

“Is it true the magical community is… more accepting… than Muggles… of men… and men?” he asked hesitantly.

Falk sipped his tea, and Harry worried the question had offended him.

“Yes. That’s accurate.” Falk stated blandly. “The only hostility I’ve experienced was from Muggleborn and half-blood Brits. I blame integration.”

“Oh,” Harry blurted. He didn’t have a good response for that.

“And Narcissa,” Falk continued, “but I blame her overall cuntishness.”

Harry snorted a laugh, and Falk smiled softly as he drew a plastic fork out of his sweatshirt and proceeded to skewer a few chips. Odd way to eat finger food, Harry thought. Watching him, Harry wondered if it was a Rusalka thing, a Scandinavian thing, or just a Falk thing. 

Mid-bite, he paused and muttered, “Falk thing.”

“That’s unnerving, you know,” Harry scolded.

“I know exceedingly well,” he said, inflectionless. “I would like to eat without scrutiny, Potter. I’ll trade you my memories of Draco at his best for your memories of him at present.”

“I… can’t do that,” Harry admitted reluctantly. “He’d be furious if I told anyone where he lives.”

“Any memories of him away from his home?” Falk proffered, chewing methodically.

“Oh! Yeah. That would be fine, just...” Harry hesitated. “Just don’t rip out more information than I put forward?”

“I won’t tell anyone how badly you want to fuck him, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Falk stated, setting his fork down. “I’m sure he already knows.”

Before Harry could object, Falk entwined their fingers, and two glowing blue boxes floated into his vision. They grew rapidly, approaching him, and dug in behind his eyes.

————————————

The twin vaults creaked open, doors sliding away from each other. The wall between the vaults was as thick as his shoulders. Appropriate for Narcissa and Lucius to want such a barrier between themselves, he mused.

It was a daunting amount of… crap. Expensive, luxuriant, valuable crap. 

None of it belonged in his home. None of it meant anything to him. None of it would be passed on. None of it was worth even looking at, if an inspection hadn’t been required before transfer and forfeiture.

Odbert passed him the forms and a quill. With a scrawl and flourish on each, he signed it all away. Good riddance.

He realized his lip was curled in disgust, and carefully schooled his expression. No reason to offend the Goblins, who _did_ find such riches useful and meaningful.

“Take what you’re owed before the Ministry claims it,” Draco instructed, glossing over the implications. “I assume your addled brain hasn’t forgotten where to send all the clothing.”

“SPEW will be happy with your filthy rags.” Odbert shifted his weight nervously. “You understand what we Goblins feel is ours.”

Draco hummed his agreement. Anything of Goblin workmanship would be returned to them. It would be quite an addition to their archives, he thought, surveying the remaining piles.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think Odbert was weeping. Propriety kept him from looking down to check, much to the Goblin’s approval.

“A boon, then, Blackblood.” Odbert croaked, straightening. Draco nodded, accepting the deal. Having the Goblin community owe him a favor was no small thing.

“And we would be honored to have your decrepit personage at our Mabon celebration. This weekend, if you’re interested.” Odbert offered. “Burgock said he has something for you.”

Draco had always wanted to see the secret Gringott Goblin Galas. On several occasions, he’d accompanied Lucius to the bank the day after a solstice or equinox. The entire Goblin staff had looked like death warmed over, and the lobby floor was pockmarked with small divots and scorch marks.

In theory, it could work. “I am interested in seeing the spectacle of you and Burgock on a dance floor,” he mused. “Perhaps.”

Security inside the bank was guaranteed. It was probably the only place he’d feel safe from assassination attempts, really. Transportation was the real issue, but maybe he could work something out with Potter.

“You and any of your filthy bedmates, of course,” Odbert added, noting Draco’s hesitation.

“Very well. If the Ministry allows it, I shall come witness this tragedy of Goblin proportions,” he said, nodding.

“Good, good, we look forward to watching you vomit koboldozers.” 

Odbert closed and sealed the vaults, and Draco sighed with resigned finality. The Heir to the Malfoy Misfortune had officially signed the last of it away.

——————————

_OPEN THE ONE ON YOUR YOUR LEFT NOW, POTTER. WATCH THE OTHER AT YOUR LEISURE. NOT IN FRONT OF DRACO._

Harry nodded, grateful to not be whisked away into the humming activity of Falk’s mind again. 

Giving him the memories of Malfoy at Hermione’s and healing Ron at the Burrow had been disturbingly easy. Falk had found Malfoy barreling into Hermione’s couch in eagle form absolutely hilarious.

The boxes were there only when he thought about them, and he seemed to be able to interact with them. Interesting. They were like layers of Occlumency with Legilimantic content.

I'M TEXTING YOU MY NUMBER AND EMAIL ADDRESS. YOU'LL NEED IT. 

He wanted to ask how Falk knew his mobile number, or that he was one of the few wizards who owned one, but answered his own question when he felt Falk’s amusement. It seemed like an unusually fitting way to communicate with him.

He felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket, and ignored it. The blue boxes teased him, and he focused on the left one. A nudge of magic, and the top popped open, projections floating out.

_Malfoy was in front of a class of younger students, maybe eleven or twelve year-olds, demonstrating something carefully with his knife. Behind him, two chalkboards transcribed his lecture, one in English, and one in French. He said something interesting, and the students in the back of the class stood to get a better view. Malfoy grinned, exuberant, looking out across the room._

_BEAUXBATONS TRIED TO OUTBID DURMSTRANG HIS SECOND YEAR TEACHING. THEIR FRENCH-SPEAKING STUDENTS WERE REQUESTING TRANSFERS._

Huh, Harry thought. They would have only been, what, twenty years old at the time? He’d still been an Auror trainee, and two of the biggest wizarding schools were having a bidding war over Draco Malfoy? He was surprised he hadn’t heard a thing about it.

The image faded, and Harry chose another.

_Malfoy sat in the Healer box at a Quidditch match, looking exceptionally bored. His hair was long enough to be held back in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck._

Long hair suited him, Harry thought. He didn’t look as much like Lucius as he would have expected. And Malfoy seemed to enjoy fiddling with it. 

_He kept trying to get Falk’s attention and pouted at every failure. Falk was keenly aware, and quietly amused. Falk’s gaze turned to look at him, but he was engrossed in something in his lap, biting his lip in concentration._

_Falk turned to talk to a slightly older woman with short blond hair about the match. She was athletic and had an aggressive air about her. The head coach, Harry assumed._

_A large paper crane drifted in front of Falk, and he snatched it out of the air. The woman glanced over as he opened it. An enormous spurting cock in swooping strokes of black ink graced the page. Falk crumpled the paper and glared at Malfoy, who looked very pleased with himself._

_The head coach picked the paper up and put it in her pocket, winking at Malfoy. His face dropped slack in shock, and Falk guffawed on the bench, startling his players._

_MARIE HOOCH. YOUR MADAME HOOCH’S DAUGHTER. SHE REFEREES FOR THE RUSSIAN LEAGUE NOW._

Harry nodded, grinning. He’d seen Malfoy’s doodles in class, but didn’t know he’d graduated to elaborate erotic art. It was unexpectedly funny for someone who’d always come off so uptight.

_YOU ONLY EVER KNEW LUCIUS AND NARCISSA’S SON. THIS IS DRACO._

Harry frowned and opened his eyes to look at Falk, who had almost finished his chips. Falk shrugged, not having anything else to add to his statement.

Harry was glad to have control over more than just his breathing in this form of Legilimency, and he relaxed into unpacking the images. The next memory looked dark, and it gave him pause, but he opened it anyway.

_He was sprawled on a couch, watching Malfoy pace nervously between the kitchen and living room of a small cottage. Their cottage, Harry realized, surprised by the intimacy of seeing their home together. Malfoy tapped a sealed envelope on the disproportionally large kitchen table every time he passed it._

_Falk said something and held his hand out for the envelope. Malfoy handed it over, nodding, and straddled Falk’s thighs. Malfoy’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears, his cheeks pink, and his hair mussed. He leaned forward, gripping Falk’s shirt, staring into his eyes._

_Harry was both uncomfortable watching their familiarity and wanted to wrap it around himself and wear it like a robe._

_The front of the envelope was addressed to “Professor Malfoy”, and the back had an intricate blue and silver wax seal with a snake entwined around a staff. Falk’s hands popped the seal and withdrew a delicate piece of parchment. Falk’s hands held it up for Malfoy to read. The side facing Falk was blank._

_Malfoy’s hands gripped Falk’s wrists, steadying the paper, then he was shouting, wild-eyed. The only word Harry could lipread was “fuck”, and it was being said rather often._

_Falk let the paper drop, and Malfoy’s elated expression greeted him. His hips climbed Falk’s body as his mouth descended._

Harry was confused. He had no idea what that seal was, or what Malfoy could have gotten in an envelope that was so terrifying and thrilling at the same time.

_THE ASKLEPEION OF KOS SELECTED HIM. IT’S A MONUMENTAL HONOR FOR A HEALER. LEARN ABOUT THE REST OF THE WORLD, POTTER._

Harry harrumphed. He’d heard of Kos. They did the autopsies on the people Falk had killed. He gasped, eyes wide, as he looked cautiously at Falk, who shrugged again, not a trace of remorse.

_THE MAN IN THE BAR WAS BEATING HIS SON TO DEATH. PITY SOME NICE AURORS WEREN’T THERE TO TELL HIM TO TRY TO MAKE IT LOOK LIKE AN ACCIDENT._

Harry’s ire fell flat. He was going to spend some serious time researching legal statutes this week. The next memory looked whitewashed and cold.

_Falk was carrying a student across a tile floor, following Malfoy. Malfoy was interrogating him over his shoulder as they walked._

_Setting the girl on a stretcher, he stepped back to watch. Her lips and fingers were blue, hair and clothes drenched. Falk’s hands were shaking. Malfoy calmly examined her, talking to Falk, but not looking up._

_Malfoy nicked between his fingers, setting one hand on the girl’s forehead, and the other on her chest. Slowly, both hands came to rest over her heart. He bit his lip, drawing blood, and leaned his mouth down to hers._

_Her little chest rose once. Twice. Malfoy pulled back and watched. Three times. A deep gasp tore into the girl and her eyes sprang open, wide and terrified. She tried to sit up, and Malfoy pressed her back down, smiling gently._

_She snatched his hand and hugged his forearm. He patted her damp hair and looked to Falk, eyes shimmering._

_SHE WAS TRAPPED UNDER THE ICE FOR A HALF-HOUR. HE PROBABLY DOESN’T KNOW SHE DIED IN THE RAID._

Harry’s throat was tight, and he sniffed. He really didn’t want to see any more, but there were only two left.

_Malfoy sat alone at a round table in a library; books, paper, and quills set out in front of him._

Harry noted he wasn’t wearing glasses, and felt Falk’s curiosity at that tidbit. 

_A pink paper crane drifted in and set itself on his table. Followed by a yellow one. Then a blue one. A green one. White. Orange. He still hadn’t noticed. An apple floated in, settling on the table._

_A group of small children watched from behind the stacks, giggling._

_Malfoy was asleep on a blanket under a tree. Dozens of paper cranes and a handful of apples surrounded him like a turkey on a platter. Falk walked up and said something, and Malfoy woke, taking in his new decor, grinning and looking for the culprits. He looked up at Falk and said something that looked like it might have been “Little birds”._

_Falk put his shoes on, and opened the cottage door. Their walkway was covered in paper cranes and apples. Little eyes peeked from behind trees and buildings._

__I WILL LEAVE YOU FOR THE LAST ONE. TELL HIM I NEED TO TALK TO HIM VERY SOON. AND… AND THAT I’M MARRIED. GOOD LUCK, POTTER._ _

With a pop, Falk Apparated right the fuck off the bench in a Muggle park in the middle of the day. Harry supposed Falk could tell with fair certainty that no one had been looking. But still. Ballsy. 

__

__

Frowning, he didn’t appreciate that Falk had decided to make him his messenger boy. Telling Malfoy that his ex-fiance was married and needed to talk to him sounded like a real shit time. 

The last memory looked like there might be nudity, and he was grateful to be alone. He hesitated before viewing it. Maybe he should go somewhere else. Somewhere private. 

Curiosity won out over patience, and he opened the last image. 

_Falk was leaning against the headboard of their bed, an ugly quilt covering him from the waist down. He was reading a newspaper printed in Cyrillic. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see a long expanse of pale skin sprawled on the bed, arm moving in a rhythmic motion._

__

__

Oh, Merlin, Harry thought. Why the fuck would Falk leave him with this? __

_Falk’s head turned to ask Malfoy something, and Malfoy scowled at him, black-dipped needles held between his lips._

_He was, indeed, stark naked. But he was busy doing something to Falk’s shoulder. An ink pot sat on the nightstand behind him. He was working high up on Falk’s arm, which didn’t have the whorls of vines and flowers. Malfoy’s shoulder had a smattering of what would become a much larger tattoo. His hair was long, brushing his shoulders, and he tucked it behind his ear as he worked._

_Malfoy changed positions, and Falk took the opportunity to watch him. He was lean, bordering on wiry, especially next to Falk’s bulk. But flexible. His limbs moved and resettled with a certain elegance._

__Harry’s cheeks flushed. In this memory, he was much skinnier than he’d looked in Hermione’s apartment. He doubted Malfoy would appreciate knowing he’d seen this. The intimacy as much as the nudity. Then again, he also wouldn’t put it past the man to strip off and walk around naked on half a dare. __

_Falk’s head turned to watch Malfoy work. His silver blade touched the webbing of his fingers, loosing a single drop, which Malfoy wiped into an ink pot and stirred with the gathered needles. He said something to Falk, smiling coyly, and leaned in to wipe Falk’s shoulder._

_Malfoy moved, and a different ink pot and needles were set on Falk’s newspaper. He looked up at Falk expectantly and asked something. Slowly, he pressed his lips to Falk’s shoulder, and leaned back to watch._

_A golden shimmering glow spread through the black ink on Falk’s shoulder, the vines shining, and the flowers turning red. The colors quickly faded, and Malfoy preened, offering his shoulder to Falk._

_Falk pricked a finger and wiped a small dab of blood on the rim of the pot, mixing it in. He scooted toward Malfoy and took his hand._

__Harry gasped as the point of view shifted. The sudden riot of emotion and sound let Harry know that he was in Malfoy’s head for this memory, and he was uncomfortable. __

_He was looking through Falk’s eyes, but Malfoy was steering Falk’s hands as he worked on Malfoy’s shoulder. He moved in rhythmic precision, pausing to dip the needle and wipe ink away. Malfoy was practically purring in contentment, and his lips were parted in arousal._

__It dawned on Harry that their tattoos were identical because Malfoy had effectively done both of them, just using Falk’s hands as his own. That he could do that was moderately disconcerting. It was a little too close to an Imperius curse._ _

__

__

__Harry shifted and wished he weren’t watching this in public, but he had no intention of stopping now. He needed to know if Malfoy’s tattoo could light up like Falk’s. __

_His hands continued working, and the ribald desire in the memory flooded Harry, choking out rationality._

Merlin, he thought. The man had no fucking compunctions about what he wanted.

_Malfoy’s thoughts of straddling Falk and grinding against him were as strong as the image of Falk’s hands. He was making small needy whimpers as he waited to finish working._

_Malfoy’s other hand was stroking, but below Harry’s field of vision. The man's sheer want was overpowering, and Falk’s hands stopped moving, putting the needles in the pot._

_Malfoy’s shameless greed disappeared as the memory shifted back to Falk’s mind alone._

Harry was both glad for the reprieve from Malfoy’s fervor, but Merlin, was it captivating.

_He wiped Malfoy’s shoulder, and was pinned momentarily by his lover’s heavy gaze._

__

_Falk pressed his finger to Malfoy’s shoulder, and the black ink exploded into an absolute anarchy of jade green vines and blazing neon flowers. The vines writhed as the flowers opened and closed, softly changing colors._

It was breathtaking, Harry thought. And not what he would have expected.

_The vines faded back to black, despite Harry’s disappointment. Absently, he wondered what they looked like now that they covered his whole arm._

_Malfoy took the ink pot from Falk’s hands, and unceremoniously replaced it with his erect cock, gripping Falk’s shoulders._ Harry gasped at the suddenness of it. 

_Falk wrapped both hands around him, and Malfoy threw a knee over Falk’s hips, finally straddling him._

_If Falk was hard under the quilt, Harry couldn’t tell, and Malfoy didn’t seem to care._

_Malfoy’s eyes were half-closed, head tilted back, lips pressed between his teeth, as Falk slowly fisted his erection. His grey gaze drifted down to Falk, eyes unfocused with lust. He leaned down and said something in Falk’s ear that Harry couldn’t hear._

_Malfoy brought two of Falk’s fingers to his mouth, and sucked them deep, working his tongue around them, his hips moving in time with Falk’s other hand. He slowly pulled the hand away from his mouth and moved Falk’s hand between his legs, past his scrotum, and pressed Falk’s slick fingers against his entrance._

“Oh, gods,” Harry whispered to himself alone on the park bench.

_Malfoy’s back arched into Falk’s probing fingers. Malfoy’s mouth was moving, and he was looking straight at Harry and Falk, gaze challenging. Falk’s fingers sank in to the knuckle, and Malfoy’s hips started moving._

Harry opened his eyes, acutely aware of the leaking erection tenting his trousers. With a furtive glance, he sprinted to a park restroom and locked himself in a stall.

Fumbling to get his cock out, he'd accidentally Vanished his trousers and pants both, and stood in flustered bare-assed shock, in the stall.

_”Mother FUCKER!”_ he hissed to himself. Fuck it, he could worry about public nudity after he wanked. Unspooling a handful of paper, he let the memory unfold again, finding he could rewind it a bit.

_Again, Malfoy slid Falk’s fingers out of his mouth and pressed them against the tightness of his hole, arching back into them, unabashed._

__Harry wrapped a hand around his length and started pumping. He was already leaking clear fluid onto the paper held in his other hand. A groan escaped him as he watched Falk’s fingers disappear into Malfoy. __

_Malfoy’s hands gripped Falk’s shoulders tight, anchoring himself to move. And move, he did. He drove himself back onto Falk’s fingers, and thrust himself forward into his hand, pace increasing._

_Falk looked up to Malfoy’s face, saying something to get his attention, but sense had utterly fled him. His grey eyes rolled down to Falk, but quickly fluttered shut against the weight of pleasure building._

__Harry slowed his own stroking, edging entirely too close to coming. __

_Malfoy’s head hung forward, tension in his brow and tightness around his eyes._

_Falk curled his fingers forward inside Malfoy, grinding in and pressing against the deepest root of him. Malfoy’s eyes blazed into Falk’s, lips moving as his hips stuttered in their rhythm._

_Heavy tension built in Harry, watching Malfoy thrust down onto Falk one last time before he ground down and hitched, thick white ropes erupting over Falk’s hand onto his chest._

__Harry bit his lip as his own body responded in kind. The building tension broke, and he came, straining to stay quiet as his length throbbed in his hand. Evidence of his release gathered on the paper. __

_Malfoy leaned down to kiss Falk deeply while Falk withdrew his fingers slowly._

“Shit,” Harry whispered as he wiped himself off. He plopped down on the toilet, exhaling softly through pursed lips.

_Malfoy smiled down, lips pursed, surveying his handiwork. A long, elegant finger slid down his chest, wiping up a streak of semen and holding it to Falk’s lips. His finger disappeared, and he bit his lip. His hips ground against Falk, who was noticeably hard under the quilt._

_Malfoy slid himself down Falk’s legs, his face level with the larger man’s chest. Delicately, he licked a streak of white from near Falk’s nipple._

Harry was spent, but he couldn’t stop watching. Gods above, he wanted this so badly.

_Malfoy’s tongue edged steadily downward, until his face found the quilt. He nuzzled Falk’s cock through the fabric. His fingers gripped the edge, and started pulling down._

The memory abruptly cut off, and Harry frowned. He was relieved, though. It had been simultaneously too much and nowhere near enough.

He could watch Malfoy move in rapt ecstasy every day for the rest of his life and never tire of it, he thought. The man desired with such absolute abandon, it was hard to not want to give him everything.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered into his hands. It was fake. It was all fake. Malfoy had never looked at _him_ like that. Malfoy had never begged for _his_ touch.

He was just some bloke with no sodding pants wanking in a park loo.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered with a soft sob. He’d never had this. He couldn’t have this. Not with him.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Whore Crux

Red robes, strained pants.  
You still sure you want this dance?

Winding roads, long glance.  
How long can you hold that stance?

Shared loads, not by chance.  
What if I’m the one entranced?

DLM 2007 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	16. Catch and Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT!  
> Sometimes, Luna visits Draco and brings rope and butt plugs and edges him till he swears in French.  
> Sometimes, Aurors live vicariously through the remembered sexual exploits of their parolees' exes.
> 
> TW: Calling "yellow" and curtailed sub drop. Nothing heavy.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Little Bunny Lu Lu

Caught you, fluffy one!  
Skewered when you tried to run.

Sudden, dying gasps  
Twixt my fingers, bleeding gash.

Damned if _that_ wasn’t luck.  
Better? Want to fuck?

DLM 2004 Cornwall  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

Harry was not sitting at his desk fretting. Aurors do not fret. They… analyze. 

And Harry was analyzing the code of conduct pertaining to Aurors and parolees. Specifically the part about relationships. More specifically, the part about sexual relationships. And the not having of them.

He hadn’t thought the Ministry’s code of conduct would explicitly allow sexual entanglements, but he had been very seriously hoping the issue would be glossed over. 

Instead, he’d found _“Sexual relations, as defined by any direct genital and/or anal contact between Aurors and their charges, is expressly prohibited. Violation will result in forfeiture of position for the Auror, and potential re-incarceration for the parolee.”_

It was oddly specific for the Ministry, which made Harry assume several such entanglements had occurred. Strange bedfellows and all that.

Even though finding another line of work seemed downright appealing, he couldn’t do that to Malfoy. If Malfoy was at all interested. Which he suspected he was. Forcing Malfoy back to Azkaban _and_ sticking him with a new Auror would be unforgivable.

Maybe Ron’s suggestion to ask Stephen out was a worthwhile idea. Better than, what? A year of obsessing over Malfoy? A year of waiting for his parole to end? A year of frustration and self-denial and angst? Yeah, fuck that. A decade of self-denial was plenty.

Sighing, he resigned himself to his responsibilities. The Witch Weekly issue would be out next week. If Ron was right, which, oddly, he usually was, Harry could expect some gentlemen callers. 

He smiled, leaning back in his chair, thinking about the possibilities. Dates? Was that something he could do now? Go out to dinner with a man? He hadn’t yet let himself think that far into the future, but that future was rapidly approaching.

Soft smile breaking into a toothy grin, he shook his head. Merlin, that could actually happen. Once the story died down a little, he could even _go home_ with men. Visions of strong hands and hard bulges and rough stubble flitted through his imagination, making his breath shudder.

That was a much better plan than letting anything happen with Malfoy. His presence had always weighed heavy, but at least he knew where they had to stand.

With that in mind, Harry closed his eyes and reached for the luminous blue box Falk had left in his mind. Briefly, he wondered if he should view this one in private, too. Vanishing his pants and trousers had been a bit of a humbling experience. But his office was private enough.  
Letting the box open and unfurl, he was greeted by Falk’s pitching baritone voice.

_CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR ACQUISITION OF A DRACO MALFOY._

_WHILE CHALLENGING TO TAME AND KEEP, THEY ARE KNOWN TO BE VERY LOYAL AND INTERESTING PETS._

_HERE ARE SOME TIPS TO KEEP YOU AND YOUR NEW FRIEND HAPPY._

Harry chuffed a laugh. No wonder Falk had said to not view this in front of Malfoy. He’d be absolutely incensed at being called a pet. Probably.

**FEEDING AND GROOMING YOUR DRACO**

**-Don’t let him consume more than two cups of coffee or three cups of tea in a sitting unless vigorous exercise is to immediately follow.**  
_Malfoy sitting at a large table with other professors, most of them older than his parents. Fidgeting horribly, but not noticing the dirty looks. Gradually rocking his chair onto its back legs further and further.  
A sudden lurch of the table, and Falk’s gaze drifts up from a report to see the bottoms of Malfoy’s shoes sticking up above the table. The entire faculty in attendance turns to glare at Falk._

Harry snorted, the abruptness of Malfoy flipping a chair over in a meeting taking him by surprise.

**-Don’t let him drink more than a single bottle of wine over the course of a long evening.**  
_Malfoy curls around a toilet. Falk says something, and Malfoy slowly extends a middle finger._

Merlin, Harry thought, if they were all like this, he was going to buy Bats season tickets in gratitude.

**-On the rare occasions he eats breakfast, it is generally a single apple.**  
_Malfoy sits between his parents in a dining hall, full English in front of him, looking ready to vomit._

Harry frowned. Malfoy looked like death sitting between his parents, and he wondered if this memory was from early in his time at Durmstrang. His hair was still short, and he looked rather underweight.

**-Bedtime snacks high in protein lead to significantly better mornings.**  
_A shuddering vision of blonde hair bobbing up and down, partially covered by a quilt._

Preventatively, Harry cast a noise dampening spell and checked his office door was locked. Just in case.

**-Don’t bother trying to surprise him with chocolate. He’ll smell it before you can give it to him.**  
_The door to their cottage swings inward, and Malfoy looks up from his book, body stiffening on the couch, nostrils flared. The image shifts, and Malfoy is on his knees in front of Falk, making a dramatic show of sniffing out something concealed in Falk’s pockets._

Harry swallowed thickly. Malfoy on his knees looking up in greedy expectation was a bit too arousing.

**-If he’s cooking, don’t fucking speak to him. Don’t look at him. Don’t get within five feet of him. It’ll be worth it.**  
_Malfoy holding the flat of a knife against Magnus’s lips, shushing him. Annoyed fury in his grey eyes, melting to quiet pride.  
A table set for eight. Three roast ducks on platters. Fingerling potatoes with crisp, salted skins. A dozen smaller bowls of colorful vegetables. Tiny bowls with spoon-sized ladles full of a variety of sauces.  
Malfoy greeting their friends at the door, taking coats, kissing cheeks, pulling out chairs._

It was… sweet, he thought. Fussy, complicated and posh, but domestic, homey and humble. He was quietly glad he’d dropped off the bag with cooking charms days ago.

**-He says he only buys beer to cook with, but he drinks half of it.**  
_Magnus’s hand sneaking the leftover beer. Malfoy scowling, but not saying anything._

**-He hates vinaigrette, beets, feta, sweet potatoes, fresh dill, cilantro, bananas, amaretto, elk, eggplant, cheap chocolate, and carbonation.**

**-He likes hollandaise, carrots, white fish, caraway, weird pickled vegetables, most desserts, and dry Alsatian wines.**

Harry opened his eyes and grabbed a quill, starting a shopping list. He’d dropped the charms off, and realized Malfoy probably didn’t have a great way to transport groceries to his home. An eagle could only carry so much in a trip.

**-He will make himself sick on chocolate ganache if left unattended.**  
_Malfoy laying on a couch licking a spatula seductively, swirling his tongue over the end of it, gathering molten chocolate. The scene melted to Malfoy curled up in bed, pouting._

The playfulness changing to regret made Harry smile. Malfoy’s open remorse was a far cry from the self-justifying twat he’d known growing up. 

**-He runs solo. Always. Don’t try to keep up.**  
_Malfoy blowing into the cottage sweaty in nothing but shorts and trainers, hopping on Falk’s lap to straddle him._

Blinking abruptly, he tried to quell the disappointment of the memory cutting off sooner than he’d have liked. No, he thought, responsible Aurors don’t search out wanking material about their charges.

**-He worries pigs are self-aware and won’t cook pork. Still eats sausages and bacon.**  
_Malfoy picking at a piece of roast, grimacing._

Bit hypocritical, Harry mused. Bit cute, too. He focused on flicking through Falk’s notes more quickly, not appreciating the sentimental response they were evoking.

**-He adores playing stupid games and winning stupid prizes.**  
_Malfoy standing victorious and exhausted, holding a very red leaf out of the reach of a group of older students._

**-He hates peacocks unless they’re plucked and roasted.**

Harry barked a laugh, flinching. He hadn’t honestly even known peacocks could be eaten.

**-He often spends the night on the couch due to insomnia or books. Have a good couch.**  
_Malfoy asleep, fully clothed, on a couch, dawn light making a pink halo of his hair._

**-If you leave dirty laundry on the floor, your clothes will disappear permanently.**  
_Magnus opening a dresser drawer to find a single pair of underwear._

**-He’s indifferent to Quidditch.**

Blinking the images away, Harry both cursed and lauded Falk’s attention to detail as he heard the title of the next section of notes:

“ **PROPER HUSBANDRY TECHNIQUES** ”

—————————————-

Draco woke to bright sunlight and a disappointingly empty expanse of white sheets. It had to be past noon, by the sun. He stretched and lazily slid a hand down to cup himself. The dream he’d been enjoying had already melted away, but it must have been exciting. He rubbed his face with both hands, and hoisted himself up to standing. Everything felt wrung out and sore from a long flight yesterday. Caffeine was in order.

His bare feet were silent on the coarse, uneven stone on the way to the kitchen. Watched pots never boil, so he set the kettle above the flame of the charmed burner and walked to the rock outcrop that served as a patio. This particular view was one of his favorites. A panoramic view of scrub grass and weather-beaten trees greeted him. And beyond that was the sea. Close enough to smell, but far enough to mute the crash of the waves against the cliffs when the sea was rough.

At some point, he mused, there would be some kind of garden here. Maybe an orchard. Something practical and productive. Something lush and far more interesting than the potted herbs that ringed the patio. Vines. Grapevines. A vineyard?

A tap on the wards near the road broke his agricultural daydream. He pushed a request for magical signature in the direction of the disturbance. 

The intruder touched their magic to the dip the ward had provided. He waited anxiously, knowing it was a witch or wizard. 

The ward delivered the signature. The magic was a rubbery, amorphous, warm shape. She felt like the center of a loaf of sourdough bread, and his mouth watered. 

Luna.

There would be just enough time for that tea before she reached the door.

————————————

**PROPER HUSBANDRY TECHNIQUES**

**-Don’t give him flowers unless you spend time on a traditional arrangement and know how to make one properly.**  
_Falk’s hand giving Malfoy a handful of wildflowers. Malfoy frowning in suspicion at the flowers._

Harry sighed, relieved. Falk must have written a section on how to court Malfoy, which he wouldn’t be doing. But maybe Hermione would be interested.

**-He doesn’t really bottom. He tops with his ass.**  
_Malfoy’s face above Falk, close, looking down, tersely whispering, flushing, eyes losing focus._

“Oh, Merlin…” Harry cursed, sucking his bottom lip in.

**-He can be very creative with a bowl of ganache.**  
_Malfoy on the couch with the bowl and spatula again. Malfoy walking into the bedroom with a spoonful of gooey chocolate, grinning wickedly._

Smirking, Harry wondered how long after this memory the one of him curled up in bed had been.

**-Don’t let him bottom a third night in a row. He’ll be over-sensitive, get carried away and hurt himself.**  
_Malfoy’s face, scarlet and sweating, wild-eyed, begging._

His breath hitched in as he tried to refocus on his duties as an Auror. And not on the idea of Malfoy getting carried away riding a cock like he owned it.

**-Offer him your monogamy, if desired, but don’t ask for his.**

“Huh,” he huffed. He’d assumed the way Malfoy and Ron had talked about Thestrals that he and Falk were very much exclusive.

 **-He loves being complimented on his appearance while being degraded.**  
_Malfoy’s chin cradled in Falk’s hand, come on his lips, looking up, listening intently, his tongue flicks out across his lips._

“Oh, Godric,” Harry hissed. If this turned into a How to Fuck Malfoy Manual, he was done. After a few more.

**-Wash the dishes after he cooks. All of them. Every time.**  
_Piles of plates. Pots and pans stacked high. Malfoy laying on the couch, looking up from a sketchbook expectantly._

Harry froze the memory instinctively, initially startled that he could. Malfoy was drawing… fire? A forest on fire. Interesting, he thought, wondering if he still had the sketch. No, that was dumb. How could he?

**-If he’s left alone, hungry, naked, and spent after sex, he’ll slowly panic.**  
_Malfoy curled up in the quilt, eyes wide. Falk’s hands carrying a tray of food. Malfoy later, sitting up in bed eating and chatting._

Good to know, Harry judged. For Hermione, of course.

**-He generally starts to get agitated after three days without significant physical contact. Plan work and travel accordingly.**  
_Malfoy launching himself out of the cottage at Falk._

This one must be an overgeneralization, he concluded. Maybe Malfoy had missed Falk after several days, but the man had been out of contact with the world for at least months at a time for several years now, and he was… fine? Probably?

**-He likes interesting fabrics, woodsy fragrances, having his hair gripped but not pulled, biting over bony prominences, deep tissue massage, edging (but he’ll say he hates it), stubble, restraints, and tattoos.**  
_Magnus’s thighs straddling Malfoy’s butt, digging thumbs into his back, switching to biting his shoulder blades, Malfoy gripping the sheets._

“Oh, thank Godric,” he sighed, relieved that Falk hadn’t chosen a more explicit memory.

**-He dislikes tickling. A lot.**

**-He needs his partners to be on good terms with each other.**  
_Malfoy sprawls on the couch across Magnus and Marie Hooch’s laps. Falk and Hooch are discussing something on the papers spread over Malfoy’s chest and abdomen. Hooch idly runs her hand through Malfoy’s hair. Falk strokes his calves. Malfoy’s eyes slowly drift shut with a flutter._

Sweet, Harry mused. And accurate, given Malfoy’s readiness to step away from the arrangement with Hermione after Ron’s disapproval.

**-If he requests a “quickie”, expect an hour minimum.**

**-When satisfied, he generally still masturbates twice a day. Often while reading classical literature. Don’t try to lend a hand.**  
_Malfoy under the ugly quilt, idly wanking with The Iliad in one hand._

With a deep exhale, Harry thanked that quilt and let the section come to a close. The next section sounded much less explicit:  
**HABITS, BEHAVIOURS, AND CONTRADICTIONS.**

————————————

 _“Coucou! ”_ Luna beckoned, trotting up the dusty trail. He smiled at the greeting. Of anyone, she’d seen his Animagus form more than anyone. _“Ça va, mon pignon?”_ He often wondered if she knew the English implications of the pet name she’d bestowed upon him.

 _“Ça va bien, ma biche. Quoi de neuf?”_ Draco leaned against the doorframe, still nude, sipping tea from a rough clay mug.

He watched her over the rim, taking her in. Her ash blonde hair tumbled down in neat waves, framing deep blue eyes. He often found himself admiring her more as a work of art than with desire. She was always lovely. A bit perfect. A bit bland, even. But the departure between her appearance and her tastes was part of the appeal.

“The usual. I’ve been abandoned in favor of some flowering vine in the Andes.” She pouted, raking her eyes down his body. He hummed in answer, leaning forward to peck a kiss on each cheek in turn.

“Six months,” she added.

“That’s a long one,” he said, more to himself. Neve was rarely gone for more than a month at a time.

“May I come in?” she asked, balanced excitedly on her toes. “I have a surprise. No, _two_!” Intrigued, he stepped aside and waved her in. She left her sandals next to the door, despite the coarseness of the stone floor, like she always did. 

Today, she was wearing a long wrap skirt of heavy satin, with a wide cobalt border and a riotous print of blue and purple hydrangeas. She had paired it with a simple periwinkle chemise. His teeth gently scraped his bottom lip as he thought about what the skirt would feel like on his skin. She knew him too well.

She always carried the same satchel. A gargantuan, floral embroidered drawstring monstrosity. He often wondered if she used it on a daily basis, or only for her visits here. He was prepared to feel flattered if she had a special Going to Draco’s Bag, but that was unlikely.

Had she taken the same bag with her to meet with Granger a few weeks ago? Her sending Granger his way made him aware of how little he knew about Luna. She was the most genuine person he knew, and he trusted her implicitly, but it was still uncomfortable.

She drew two small sections of silky, golden rope out of her bag, a much longer silver rope, and a small white box with a red ribbon bow on top. A whiff of chocolate enticed him nearly as much as the promise of sex.

“You didn’t,” he said, beaming.

“I very much did.” She smiled back. “You know you’ll have to earn it, though.”

“Of course,” he stated as seriously as he could. “Shall we?”

——————————

** HABITS, BEHAVIORS, AND CONTRADICTIONS. **

**-If he says something is an acquired taste, you’ve already hurt his feelings.**

Harry frowned, trying to recall ever hearing Malfoy say that.

**-His internal monologue is mostly in French. He has a slight accent if he’s been thinking alone for too long.**

**-He is acutely aware of everything around him. All the time. Retreats often.**  
_Malfoy petting a cat in a quiet room away from a party. He looks up to see Falk and smiles._

Scowling, Harry opened his eyes, letting the memory wait. How many times had he seen Malfoy sneak out of the Great Hall, or away from assemblies and Quidditch games? Dozens, at least. He’d always assumed Malfoy was up to something, but maybe the poor bastard just didn’t like crowds? Gods, that was enlightening as all hell.

**-He’s good with kids, but horribly embarrassed about it.**  
_Malfoy at a library table, showing young students how to make paper cranes._

Surfacing again, Harry frowned. Malfoy had often had younger Slytherins trailing him and jockeying to sit near him at meals. He’d always assumed it was a Slytherin status thing, but maybe Malfoy was just… nice to them?

**-There’s no emotion he can’t cry about.**  
_Malfoy smiling in tears, Malfoy sobbing, Malfoy enraged and tear-streaked._

Scoffing, he rubbed his eyes. Falk’s memories played out like a cinematic production, in which Draco Malfoy portrayed an entirely different human being, and Harry was starting to doubt Falk’s trustworthiness.

**-He will open all the windows and forget to shut them.**

**-He’ll dance to anything with a beat, but prefers heavy drums.**

**-He’s an accomplished harpist, but unlikely to admit it.**  
_Malfoy hiding in a back room at Durmstrang, tuning an ornate floor harp. Silver moonlight hits his hair._

Eyebrows raised in recognition, Harry watched Malfoy’s fingers experimentally pluck at the strings, launching into a few measures, then testing again. It was nearly identical to the movements his fingers had made as he used Blood Magic on Ron.

**-Children tend to gravitate toward him. He sometimes pretends to dislike it, but he adores them.**  
_Malfoy kneeling, tying a boy’s shoe.  
Malfoy sitting in the bleachers with a stack of papers and a quill during practice, a loose gaggle of students congregating around him.  
Malfoy reading a book in a pub, looking up to find a toddler watching him over the back of her mother.  
Malfoy ushering child after child into their cottage with illnesses and injuries.  
A pregnant woman yelling to Malfoy across a street, doubled over. Malfoy dodging carts to cross the road.  
Falk’s point of view approaching the steep-roofed cottage, front steps adorned with offerings of interesting rocks, small cakes, pinecones, pretty leaves, and crudely drawn pictures._

Looming realization made Harry pull back from Falk’s memory. There were so many memories of Malfoy with children. In several of them, he’d looked like Arthur at a Weasley family dinner. At ease. And content. 

And these were Falk’s memories. But he’d said Falk was the one to operate on him.

Merlin, what had that cost Malfoy? These memories weren’t even just of students. There were toddlers and babies in many of them. Malfoy and Falk had clearly been a fixture in the town around Durmstrang Institute.

It was more than a little humbling to see the life Malfoy had built in the matter of a few years. The same years during which Harry had really only drudged through Auror training and tried to keep out of the press. 

Malfoy had been delivering babies and reviving drowned children while he’d been investigating shop break-ins and missing Kneazles? He didn’t even invite dates to his flat, let alone host fucking dinner parties. 

It made Harry feel vaguely inauthentic by comparison. And angry, but at whom or what, he wasn’t sure.

**-Signs of distress: Picking at fingernails, picking at food, picking imaginary lint, picking fights, formalwear, increased requests for hard bottoming, stoicism, French expletives.**  
_The back of Malfoy’s head, sweat-drenched blond hair, bare flushed shoulders, hands on a wall, cuticles torn._

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, anger melting and pooling as arousal.

**-Signs of contentment: Casual nudity, writing or sketching for hours, hosting dinner parties, casual sexual aggression, random song and dance, also French expletives.**  
_Malfoy’s ink stained fingertips pushing Magnus’s shoulders down into a dining chair, table set for a party, Malfoy straddling him. Malfoy’s hands went to the button of his trousers, deftly undoing them._

His breath caught as his own hand pressed hard against the base of his growing hardness. Nope, he thought. Auror, not lover.

Lover? The word had come unbidden, not one he’d ever deigned appropriate before. Shaking his head, he opened the last memory of the set, eager to move on.

**-The more he shrugs, the more he wants you to change the topic.**

Fair enough, Harry thought. The next, and second-to-last section of Falk’s overly extensive notes sounded tame… but then he’d thought that about this one, too.

** SPECIAL TOPICS **

———————————

Luna stopped to ruffle his hair appreciatively, and he wondered if she’d ask who else had cut his hair. 

“Comfortable?” She stopped to check with him.

“Well, no, but not uncomfortable enough to admit it,” he whispered between panted breaths, trying to find the most optimal way to stay seated in an unforgiving wooden high-back dining chair with a butt plug pressing into him unsubtly.

“I warned you it was an ambitious selection.” She smiled, winding a segment of the soft golden ropes around each of his wrists and knotted each side. 

“I just…fuck…” He groaned, fighting the urge to grind his ass against the chair. It was too big to ignore, and too little movement to satisfy.

He looked at his wrists in his lap. It would be easy to simply slip the loosest loop over each hand, unwind the coils, and take them off. He considered doing so and stroking his growing erection, but already knew where that would lead.

“You can always change your mind, _mon pignon_ ,” she said, almost scolding. “I’m a little impressed you chose it at all.”

He rocked forward, feeling the plug press deep behind the root of him, and wiggled slightly. Gods, it would be good for coming, but was beyond annoying to sit with.

“Shiny new toy,” he exhaled in a rush.

Luna smirked and laced the rope through his armpits, binding his upper arms and shoulders to the frame of the high back chair. The shimmery rope looked decorative, but it was deceptive. The slack would be just enough to maintain circulation in his hands after she’d secured them behind him.

“I was hoping you’d skip the top of the shoulder.” He smiled ruefully, hiding a passing wave of claustrophobia.

“And have you fly away?” She measured out loops of the silver rope in her hands.

“It was a long time ago. I figured you’d forgotten,” he said, a blush creeping up his neck.

“How could anyone forget a man briefly turning into a bird, then having a wank in his kitchen sink?” she said, laughing.

“That was an inhumane amount of teasing, and I was grateful to make it to the sink.” He rotated his hands to test her knots.

“You had but to say the word,” she reminded him as she draped the silver rope over his shoulders. Nimble fingers started coiling it loosely around one upper arm, then the other.

“I panicked.” The rope skimmed his chest, teasing a hardening nipple, before being drawn back.

“And masturbated in the sink.”

“And masturbated in the sink.” He tried to shrug, but the coils of rope on his arms hid the gesture.

He was usually fully hard by this point, but his body was lagging behind today. Something felt off. Maybe he should have eaten breakfast.

“Long flight this morning?” Her gaze left her work to take in his hesitation.

“Yesterday. The fishing was terrible,” he replied, still angry at a seal who’d stolen his catch. Fucking bastard. Seal fur would come back into fashion if he waited long enough.

“Sore?”

“Just stiff.” He was grateful that she knew to ask, but a little surprised at himself that he hadn’t told her when she’d first arrived. They usually spent more time talking before hopping to it, but… shiny new toy.

She kissed his forehead and walked around to the back of his chair. “Okay. Say when, _mon pignon_.”

His train of thought derailed as she gently pulled his arms behind the chair and started lifting his hands, back to back. He groaned as she took each arm in turn and pulled gently up and back, stretching the overworked muscles in his chest and the front of his shoulder. Her ministrations inched his hands higher. 

When he grunted and she was satisfied with the position of his wrists crossed between his shoulder blades, she wove the end of the silver rope through, suspending them in place. The slack was plucked from the coils around his arms as she tightened them into position. 

He often wondered what the knot looked like from the back. It had to be complicated, for as long as it took, but he was grateful for her caution. Sometimes, caution and safety were incredibly arousing.

“Done,” she announced, throwing the loop over his shoulder. “Can you reach it?”  


He leaned his head over and touched the silver rope loop with his lips. “Mm hm.”

If he pulled the loop with his teeth, his hands would drop free and the ropes around his shoulders would loosen. After the sink incident, she’d started using a tie that left him an emergency exit. He wasn't proud of it, but still grateful.

Luna stood in front of him and ever so slowly slid her chemise over her head, giving him a long look at her breasts emerging. She slid her hands up to cover them while she swayed and turned her back to him. He usually looked forward to Luna’s excruciating strip teases, but this gods-forsaken monstrosity up his ass had stolen his attention entirely.

Futilely, he tried to shift his weight to one side, but couldn’t move his torso enough for it to make a difference.

Her left hand wandered down to the small bow at her side that tied her wrap skirt in place. Her right hand slid up her neck, into her hair, exposing the long line of her neck, then drifted to meet at the bow on her left hip. The sides of the skirt opened wide across her backside as she held the ends out at arm’s length. The fabric tapered up at the ends, and immediately caught his interest.

Did she know the shape of the satin looked like wings to him? Did she know that the color blocking would catch his eye?

Luna looked over her shoulder and winked. She absolutely understood what she was doing. The minx. His year spent in his Animagus form didn’t have too many lingering effects, but she’d apparently found one. A new game.

“Wicked witch,” he panted. Attempting to shift his weight onto his tailbone just resulted in pain, and he growled softly, resuming the teasing position on top of the damned plug. Salazar’s salivaries, if he could just _move_ on top of this thing, it would feel so fucking good.

The unfurled skirt rose until her legs were exposed, her back covered. She slowly wrapped the skirt around her torso, turned to face him, and held eye contact. It was an offer, and not a human one. His head cocked in interest.

She stared at him, unflinching, and slowly walked toward him.

Luna slipped a hand out of the fabric to flick the box of truffles open. She popped one in her mouth, but held it in her teeth. He grinned, recognizing her game.

He closed his eyes in an attempt to rein in his body’s desperate urge for _anything_. Friction, pressure, up his ass, on his cock, _anything_. Fuck, he’d settle for a good slap at the moment.

He smelled chocolate and slowly opened one eye. Her face was inches from his. He opened his mouth and accepted the damn truffle with a pout. The urge to toss his head back and swallow it whole was quickly stifled as he bit down on the glossy confection.

He hummed his satisfaction and let his head tilt back on the chair. The filling of the truffle melted and ran to the back of his mouth, leaving the chocolate shell on his tongue. He crushed it against the roof of his mouth, and rubbed it back and forth until it melted away. Truly good chocolate should never be chewed.

A sigh escaped him, and he cautiously opened both eyes, body momentarily distracted enough for coherence. 

“How is my bird?” she asked, settling herself on his lap and wrapping the satin and her arms around his shoulders.

He groaned and chuckled a warning as her weight pressed the plug in harder. He tried twice to speak, and settled for shaking his head.

Her hips rocked in small motions, barely moving. She bit her lip, watching his face go slack at the minuscule changes in pressure.

His eyes slid open as the satin skimmed down his chest, barely touching, but impossible to ignore. With a whimper, he realized exactly where the damnable skirt was heading.

Wrapping the slick fabric around her hands, she slid them down his abdomen, letting them brush the edges of his erection. His hips bucked, but it was no use. The touch was too delicate to gain anything by thrusting into it.

His breath huffed out in frustration, jaw tense. “I hope I come all over that fucking skirt,” he hissed.

She shrugged, the movement making the satin brush across the tip of him. He groaned low in his throat, head falling back against the back of the chair.

“You might,” she said dismissively. “But I’ll eat the other truffle if you do.”

His head snapped up, eyes flinty. “You wouldn’t.”

Her hands snaked between his thighs, slicking the skirt between his groin and sac while she smiled wickedly. “Oh, I _would_. I think I’d make you watch me eat it very, very slowly. And then make you listen to me have no less than… I think… three orgasms in your bed while you sit in this chair. Unsatisfied.”

She slid her thighs closer to his hips, leaning more of her weight on him, and he shuddered as the plug pressed in deeper. A jolt of pleasure ran from the core of him, making his erection jump in her fragile silken hold.

Her weight shifted back, then leaned forward again, eliciting another jolt and whimper from him. She leaned in further to lick a smear of chocolate from his bottom lip, and settled her hands on his hips, pressing down.

His body tensed, both in pleasure and in surprise, panting through his nose. She was going to milk his climax from him with just that, he thought. Not a dignified finish.

“ _Brûle la…_ ” he hissed, straining. “ _jute…_ ”

Her hands slid back down to his cock, so lightly touching him, that he wondered if he was imagining it.

“ _…en l’enfer_.” He growled, cursing the damnable skirt, head falling back against the chair. The skin of his chest ran hot, flush chasing up to his cheeks.

Visions of Blood Magic and shifting and shredding ropes and throwing her down and fucking her skittered behind his eyes, and he shook his head.

“ _Jaune_ ,” he croaked, half-begging, half-threatening, halting the game.

“What do you need?” Luna whispered, concerned. She removed her hands and dropped the skirt to the floor.

 _”Défonce-moi,”_ he pleaded through gritted teeth. A whine escaped his throat.

Her hands slid up his chest, forearms resting on his shoulders, as her hips lifted from him. Grateful for the sudden reprieve from her weight pinning him to the seat, he clenched his glutes, only to be reminded of the damned plug.

Her mouth found his as her hips sank slowly down onto his cock. The wet heat of her pulled along groan from him. His body was approaching climax, and they’d only just begun.

“Come for me,” she whispered into his neck. He clung on the precipice of coming, knowing she wasn’t yet close. Gods, he was too close, the pressure building, and the plug practically forcing him to release every time she thrust herself down onto him.

“Let go,” she said, punctuated by small kisses along his jaw as she settled her weight onto his hips, riding him in short strokes.

The weight of his orgasm broke through his control, and his hips thrust up against her. His hands scrabbled for purchase only to find the back of the chair. 

He spasmed inside her, tension breaking deep and pulling itself forward. He cried out his release as she pressed him down against the seat. He kept throbbing while she ground her hips down, greedily taking him in. 

Gradually, her movements slowed, and she laid small kisses over his shoulder as he stilled. He leaned down to bury his face in her hair, sighing.

He winced when she moved, oversensitivity setting in. His release was already seeping out around his softening cock, and she wiped a drop up and tasted it, grinning wickedly.

His head lay back on the top of the backrest. Black sparkles still dancing around the edges of his vision. His body sagged, only the ropes holding him in the chair.

“ _Viens ici, ma biche_ ,” he whispered. She smiled, and dabbed another drop on his bottom lip, slowly tracing it along the full lower edge. Her lips grazed his chin, and his head rose, their mouths meeting. The corners of his eyes glinted, and he quickly blinked the droplets away. Her head lay on his chest while his breathing slowed.

He cleared his throat and rasped, “I think I died.”

“Hm, a little.” She stroked his hair back from his forehead, and wiped a finger under each eye. He sighed and sagged into the ropes.

“Off,” he whispered. “You atrocious she-devil.” She kissed his forehead and very slowly stood up. He groaned at the sensation of his cock pulling out.

“Ready?” she asked from behind the chair.

He nodded, and she supported the weight of his hands while she pulled the loop of rope to release them. His breath hissed in pain as she slowly lowered his hands and freed them from the ropes. He tentatively flexed his wrists and elbows as she undid the long silver rope around his shoulders. The rope had been supporting his upper body, and he felt unstable now without it.

She handed him a damp cloth, and he half-heartedly wiped himself off. Gingerly, he reached behind and pulled the thrice-damned plug out. Settling into the seat, he winced. She _had_ warned him, he had to admit.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His breathing felt normal, but a fine tremor was starting in his hands. Distant panic inched around his throat.

Luna threw the skirt over his bare shoulders and wrapped it around him. Its warmth surprised him, and he nuzzled it against his shoulder. His face left a small damp spot on the fabric. He realized he was crying before a lone sob broke from his throat.

Luna ran her fingernails up the back of his neck, taking in his reaction.

“Can you walk to bed?” she asked, judging the distance. He nodded, and she helped him stand. He was steadier on his feet than he’d expected.

“Lay down,” she said as she turned back to the kitchen. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

———————————

** SPECIAL TOPICSs **

**-Never return fire. In magic, fists, or words. For every blow he lands, he feels it twice. Walk away.**  
_Malfoy pacing, sunset behind him, snarling vitriol, pointing a finger at Falk. Malfoy later, dusk light fading, tearful, head hung. Falk’s arms wrapping around Malfoy._

Godric, he’d seen Malfoy like that more times than he could count. Usually at the other end of a quivering wand. Hot guilt laced through him remembering the scars across Malfoy’s abdomen. 

What would have happened if he hadn’t cursed him in the bathroom first? Would Malfoy have actually backed down? Would whatever Malfoy had been weaving been less damaging than the Sectumsempra that still marked him now? 

Harry Potter and Voldemort, he thought. The two neglected half-bloods who’d inscribed themselves onto Draco Malfoy’s skin. 

Eager for distraction, he moved on.

**-He’s a fucking Seer.**

**-He refuses to acknowledge he has Seer dreams.**  
_Malfoy waking up sweating and panting, talking to Falk. Durmstrang in flames. Red robes. Sickly green light._

Blowing out a breath, Harry blinked his office back into focus. Merlin, perhaps this should have been the first thing on his list.

That would be a fun thing to work into casual conversation. So, platonic parolee, any interesting dreams lately? Totally normal conversation for two blokes over tea.

**-Don’t try to put his things away for him. When he can’t find them, he’ll think he’s losing his grip on reality like his aunt.**  
_Malfoy curled up on a couch looking scared, Magnus sets his knife in front of him, and Malfoy snatches it up and glares at him._

Memories of Malfoy’s extremely organized workspaces flitted through his mind. Meticulous spelling areas. Tidy lineups of potion ingredients. Neatly-stacked books and notes. Damn, but Falk was observant.

**-Imposed isolation shatters him faster than anything else.**  
_Malfoy in dress robes with long hair, boxed in by his parents in the corner of Durmstrang’s main hall. Malfoy’s eyes locked onto Falk’s and he smiled weakly._

**-Never read the notebooks he carries around. He’ll burn them out of your hands rather than let you read his writing.**  
_Magnus’s hands, flaming embers filtering through his fingers. Malfoy scowling._

Curiosity piqued, Harry remembered seeing Malfoy scribbling in a tiny book at Hermione’s, and again after he and Ron had dropped him off at home. Always when it didn’t seem like anyone was watching.

He stretched, noting how little time had actually passed since he’d opened Falk’s rather comprehensive guide. _”Rewarding and interesting pet”_ , indeed, he thought.

Only one more section, and then he could get Falk’s voice out of his head for good.

** FUTURE CONSIDERATIONS **

———————————

Rummaging around, Luna managed to cobble together an assortment of apple slices, cold meat, and his leftover tea. She arranged it on a plate in the shape of a rabbit, with the second truffle as the eye. Perfect.

He was splayed disjointedly on the bed like a marionette without strings, but he lifted his head when she entered. “ _Are_ you dead?” she asked jokingly.

He sniffed, wiped an eye, and replied. “Yes. Luna Lovegood has slain the last free Death Eater. Here he lies, in forever repose. Wrapped in a very nice skirt. With his dick out.”

“Eat. Before you get dramatic,” she retorted. “You didn’t have breakfast before I got here, did you?”

“Tea is breakfast, _ma biche_.”

“Not for a bird who flew all day. I should have thought to ask.”

“I should have thought to mention it. This is why we’ll never be any good in bed.” He shook his head in mock disapproval.

She set the plate down on the bed next to him. He sat up, cross-legged, and went straight for the truffle. 

He always ate them the same way. Bite off the hard chocolate of the bottom and let it melt. Bite the chocolate off half the outside to expose the center. Bite and lick the filling out, enjoying it slowly. Then finish it off by eating the last remaining shell. Make a horrible chocolatey mess of the left thumb and first two fingers and lick them clean to the joy of all spectators.

He became aware of her watching him as he finished licking the center out of the truffle. He finished it and quietly licked the pads of his fingers and thumb. “Jealous?” he asked in mock innocence.

“Of the truffle? Yes, a bit.”

“You didn’t come.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No. But it was worth it. I was more interested in testing our theory today.” She moved to sneak one of his apple slices, and he scooted the plate away from her with a glare.

Magnanimously, he held a slice out of her to bite, but swooped in to catch her lips as she leaned forward. She pulled back and leaned down to kiss his forehead, but he caught her lips again and kissed her deeply. A soft sigh escaped her, and she melted into him, pressing her body along his.

Why she always tried to hold back from him, he may never know. But she was rarely successful.

Laying a peck on her chin, he grazed his lips along her jaw to her neck. She truly did have the most lovely neck, he thought as he nipped and kissed down it to her chest.

And particularly wonderful breasts, he mused. Her pale skin against his was familiar, and he eased her onto her back, tracing her sides with his hands. 

His lips skimmed the delicate skin below her breasts as his hands slid along her ribcage, raising goosebumps. He set his teeth against the faint scar under one breast, and she hummed happily. With a soft, eager moan, her thighs fell open, hips raised in quiet offering.

His thumbs ran down the sharp angles of her pelvis, and he trailed teasing kisses down past her navel, not yet taking her hips up on their offer. Hungry little sighs fell from her lips every time his touch inched closer to her sex.

“ _Draco_ ,” she sighed, her fingers having found his hair.

He kissed his way to the crease of her groin, and her hands subtly pushed his head down. Her hips raised in an attempt to close the distance.

“Hm?” He feigned ignorance as his tongue traced a hot line back up the edge of her.

“Please?” Luna whispered, fingers taking a firmer hold on his hair.

“Hmmm,” he hummed, lips pressed firmly against her. She bucked and groaned at the sensation, and he grinned. “I think it would serve you right, you know…”

She opened her mouth to protest, and he crushed his mouth against her, tongue seeking, and lips catching hold of her clit. Her hands clutched the sheets as she shuddered, knees drawing up, keeping him in place.

With a low, vibrating chuckle, his tongue and jaw found a steady rhythm with her hips. His fingers slid in easily, their combined wetness more than enough.

Her hips picked up speed quickly, keeping time with her hushed, panting moans. He crooked his fingers inward a touch, and her hips stuttered. A frantic sob of pleasure broke from her, and her core gripped his fingers, clenching time to the movements of her hips.

With a shuddering sigh, her thighs fell open, and she released her grip on his hair. He gave her a final gratuitous lick to hear her squeak, and she didn’t disappoint.

“See? We will _never_ be any good together,” Draco reiterated. “Absolute rubbish every fucking time, Lovegood.” 

He flopped down next to her, sucking his fingers clean for emphasis and settled his plate back on his hips.

“This skirt is mine now. It’s a public menace.” He drew it over his chest, finally having the chance to enjoy the heavy slickness of the fabric. “Wait. You said _our_ theory?” he asked, catching up to the earlier conversation.

“Hers more than mine. About residual Animagi mating habits,” she replied clinically, post-climax haze fading quickly.

A niggling sense of dread was growing in his gut. “Neve knows about this? Us?” He chewed an apple slice, not really tasting it.

“Of course. I thought you knew,” she stated, like it had been splashed across The Prophet on a regular basis.

“No,” he said softly, chewing slowly, not sure what to say.

“Is it… alright?”

“It’s… different.” He shrugged. “I considered myself a guilty pleasure, not a side dish.”

“Mm… You are quite indulgent,” she cooed, stroking his chest through the satin.

As much as he wanted to ask her to lay their entire arrangement out on the table, he worried it would scare her off. Her relationships apart from him were all but a mystery. Really, everything about her was. Rather mysterious, in general.

But gods, she and Neve were practically married, as much as they pretended to part ways when on different continents. Why hadn’t they all talked about this before? 

Because she’d been his only regular visitor for years? Because he’d rather be a dirty secret than nothing? He chewed another piece of apple, thinking.

They sat quietly, the breeze audible. She’d definitely never mentioned Neve’s knowledge of their meetings, let alone that she had discussed and planned them with her first. 

Was he in the wrong for thinking Luna kept him a secret? Or was she in the wrong for telling Neve without consulting him?

“I should have told you,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he shrugged again. “But I should have asked, too.”

“Are… are we okay?” She chewed her lip, brow creasing.

“Uhm… yeah,” he replied. “But sending Granger my way might have complicated things, _ma biche_.” It was true, he reasoned. And now Potter had full knowledge of who crossed his wards and when. Yet another hurdle.

“Ah, okay,” she said, walking her fingers dangerously close to his plate. He set the plate on the other side of him, out of her reach, an exhausted attempt at a menacing glare falling flat.

“I want to talk to Neve when she gets back.” Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and thought. "About plants, too. Not just about your bouncy little bum."

She nodded, relieved.

He flicked the skirt out flat on the bed and rolled over onto it. She laid on her side next to him and stroked his back until his eyes drifted shut. He didn’t generally fall asleep after a single round, but gods, that had been… something.

“Do you need anything before I go?”

“I need… to know how to get semen out of satin. For later,” he mumbled drowsily, briefly considering asking her to stay, but immediately squashed it down. Once bitten, he thought.

“No idea, _mon pignon_.” Her lips grazed along his shoulder, giving it a final peck.

She sat up and ruffled his hair, skimming her fingernails up the nape of his neck as she rose. He watched her walk to the kitchen, eyes drifting shut. He exhaled and relaxed into the bed, listening to the familiar sounds of her getting dressed and packing her bag. The door clicked shut behind her.

He stretched, experimentally thrust his hips against the skirt briefly, and tucked a pillow under his head, anticipating the dreamless sleep her visits always brought. 

A curly, brown hair on the pillow caught his attention. The threads of unease from earlier gathered, twisting in his chest. 

He should have told her. But she could have asked.

——————————

** FUTURE CONSIDERATIONS **

**-He wants a family but is too conflicted about his own upbringing to likely ever pursue fatherhood. Don’t push it.**  
_Malfoy curled up with a “Falk” photo album, looking wistful._

Well, that could do with a lot more explanation, Harry appraised. Not that an Auror had anything to do with a parolee’s family planning.

**-He will probably always have concurrent male and female partners.**  
_Malfoy entangled in dusky limbs on a rug in front of the cottage fireplace. They freeze, the woman waves to Falk, grinning._

Chewing his lip, Harry wondered if Malfoy was sleeping with anyone other than Hermione. Luna or Pansy, maybe? Hermione had mentioned them, and Luna had just crossed his wards. That was a sight he had trouble wrapping his mind around. But it was none of his business.

**If he ever settles in a permanent residence, it will be because he has full control over the physical space.**  
_Malfoy painting over ornate wallpaper, swaying to unheard music. White paint in his hair, eyes bright._

The Bombarda blasting caps seemed an even more appropriate gift now. Maybe he could make use of some of Ron’s new charms. Or… not… seeing how getting his parolee blown up would probably reflect poorly on him as an Auror.

**-There’s very little he can’t accomplish with Blood Magic, and he may never bother with a wand again.**

Good to know, Falk, Harry thought tersely. This guide of his had been entirely too thorough, and annoyance was setting in.

**-Don’t say his sister’s name. Don’t ask about her death.**

Shrugging, he thought that was an outdated suggestion. Malfoy had brought it up just the other night rather matter-of-factly.

** -Don’t underestimate his parents. **

Yeah, no shit, Falk, Harry thought, slamming the box shut, waiting for it to evaporate. Pale blue glow fading slightly, it sat, waiting to be reopened. He heaved himself out of his chair with a groan, and went in search of coffee.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Exile

You say it like it was a choice.  
To leave all that we owned.  
You say it like we had a voice.  
In setting out alone.

I hope I hear your fettered scree.  
In wards or ropes or chains.  
I hope they take you before me.  
I’ll dare to breathe again.

DLM 2002 Rybachiy  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	17. Granger Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not smut, but gratuitous nude sensuality.  
> Hurt/comfort.  
> Hermione's not entirely rational when it comes to the punctuality of her menstrual cycle.  
> Accusations fly.  
> Hermione's fist flies.  
> Draco has some stern, mature adult words for _that_.  
> Hermione has to admit she doesn't really know him, but maybe she'd like to.  
> Healers are pretty great with cramps, turns out.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Buried Voices

My sons know not my father’s tongue,  
For his family silenced many.  
Daughters won’t sing my mother’s songs,  
For her people buried plenty.

So heed my warning, readers dear,  
From generations pained.  
Those who sought to lead through fear,  
Lost much more than they gained.

DLM 2010 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

Insomnia wasn’t new to her, but this jittery, nauseous panic all night was an unwelcome guest. And it was Malfoy’s fault. 

It was _his_ fault she’d forgotten the contraception charm. It was _his_ fault, because _he’d_ thrown off her pre-sex routine by making her spend the night. It was _his_ fault there was a mug of urine on the sink, and it was _his_ fault she was crying on her bathroom floor waiting for a timer to beep. Draco Fucking Malfoy’s fault, all of it.

Ninety seconds left. And even then, the test wouldn’t really be accurate till tomorrow. She was only a day late. But maybe she’d sleep tonight. Probably not. She wouldn’t really sleep till her period came.

It had taken her five days. Five fucking days, to realize she’d forgotten it. Beyond the range of Muggle last ditch efforts.

So, she just hadn’t slept in a week. And Pepper Up potion didn’t seem like a good idea, in case it caused issues with… pregnancy?

Godric. Pregnancy? Or… not? She’d already memorized the schedule of the clinic close to campus. That was the logical solution for a law student, wasn’t it? The responsible solution?

That was definitely the better option. The other option being dropping out of school, losing her Ministry internship, and gracing the world with another fucking Malfoy. That plan had absolutely nothing going for it. Probably a cute little fucking Malfoy, though. 

Why had he showed her that dream of them in bed with children? Merlin Almighty, it had felt so right. And he had felt so perfectly at home. Was it part of a plan? Was that what he wanted from her?

No, unacceptable. “Hermione Granger, Death Eater Broodmare” didn’t hold up to “Hermione Granger, Supreme Mugwump”. Okay, phonetically, it did, but not in actual life. Maybe she’d rename the position when she got it. If she got there.

The timer beeped, and she squeaked in surprise. Sitting up, she tentatively put her fingers on the edge of the sink and peeked up over the edge of the mug.

Not pregnant! Okay, _probably_ not pregnant! Like, 99% not pregnant.

She was still furious, though. He’d absolutely noticed she’d forgotten the charm. The man had fucking invented one of them. He was a literal expert in the fucking things. He had to have noticed she hadn’t used one that morning.

Malfoy had some fucking explaining to do. Rinsing out the mug, she tried to keep her hands from shaking, but it was no use. 

How could he have fucking done that? And why would he? What did he have to gain?

His fastidiousness in everything else was obvious, so it couldn’t have been an oversight. Even the sex itself had been meticulous.

Fuck it. She needed answers. " _Fuck!_ " she hissed out loud, just for good measure.

—————————————————

The hot spring would be what kept him here after parole, he mused. Even the Manor hadn’t offered a bathtub the size of a bedroom. Especially not one that emptied itself every low tide and refilled on its own. Better than magic.

Carefully stepping down off the wooden ladder into the waist-deep water, he set the candle on a small ledge and surveyed his handiwork. This was the last space he’d used the charmed detonators to excavate. It was still impressive as hell that the ceiling hadn’t caved in, or the exterior wall blown out. 

The ledge carved out several inches below the surface of the water was his demolitions oeuvre. Hoisting himself up from the waist-deep water, he settled into the subtle curve of the warm stone, letting the water lap against his sides. The radiant heat was luxurious, and his body melted.

The exterior ward shivered, and he frowned at the ceiling in annoyance. Probably a large animal or a Muggle. Sighing, he let his head fall back into the warm water, neck stretching. The silence as his ears dipped under the water was absolute and exquisite.

The ward shook again, this time shunting forward a magical signature. Somebody was pushy. Rolling it around in his mind, it took a while to place. Cracked leather? No, vellum. Cracked, flaking vellum. Granger in distress?

He sent the permissions for her to pass, and rolled dramatically off the ledge to flop into the deeper water of the pool. Sinking to the bottom, he sat cross-legged, watching candlelight filter through the blue-tinted spring water.

It would take her a while to actually reach the door, and he didn’t intend to be cold any longer than he needed to. And, truth be told, he wasn’t looking forward to finding out what had her knickers in such an epic twist that it could change her signature like that.

She’d made it abundantly clear she only wanted him for one thing, and that one thing wasn’t due for another two weeks. Which meant he had an angry, hormone-fueled Granger storming his castle. Great. Could he hide underwater long enough for her to give up and leave?

The slamming door concussed the house, echoed down the ladder hole, and through the water. So much for knocking. Standing, he slicked his hair back, squeezing most of the water out. A towel at the top of the ladder would have been a good idea. A cold, wet, naked face-off sounded like an automatic loss.

Nearing the top of the ladder he looked up, and _fuck_ if she wasn’t staring down at him. He flinched, nearly sliding off the rungs.

“Uhm, welcome, Granger.” He wasn’t climbing out till she backed up. Preferably out of biting range.

“Hi,” she balked. Confidence waning, she was caught off guard by him not being in the middle of something nefarious. She’d expected to interrupt him plotting her demise, not… taking a bath? And looking up at her with those grey eyes. Fuck, he looked like he’d been carved as an homage to a Greek god. Why did he bother hiding any of his face behind hair?

“Shall I come up, or are you coming down?” he gently inquired. She looked like hell. Exhausted. Drained. Unraveled.

The opening was suddenly clear, and he climbed out. She was pacing between the kitchen and living room. Which was the better move? Walking past her to get a towel from the bedroom, or standing still, not attracting attention? Was her attack instinct triggered by motion?

He shivered, and opted to brave the perilous voyage to the next room. Shockingly, she let him, but he felt her staring daggers in his back the whole walk. When he rounded the bookcase, she was standing, braced for combat, hands on hips, in the center of the open space. A showdown, then.

He finished ruffling his hair, roughly toweled off his body, and wrapped the towel around his waist. Still entirely too vulnerable to attack, but better than cold and naked.

“Well? Let’s have it, Granger,” he invited. “Your ears are going to start smoking soon.”

“ _Did you know I forgot?_ ” she seethed. Gods, he had no right looking so innocent.

He shook his head. “Forgot what?” Mind racing, he walked an arc around her to get to the kitchen. He wanted tea. It was going to be lukewarm tea, though. For his own safety.

What could she have forgotten that he had anything to do with? Had she left something here? 

Did she forget something horrible he’d done, and she felt he’d taken advantage of that? What could he have done that was worthy of this wrath, but was forgettable to her?

“Don’t fuck with me, Malfoy. You knew.” Her voice came out a harsh rasp. “You fucking watched me forget and you _knew_.”

Tea wasn’t going to fix this, but he still went ahead and started it.

“What did you-“

“You watched me forget to use a contraception charm, and you fucked me anyway, and you knew the whole time, you bastard.” Her rapid breathing almost covered up how close to sobbing she was.

She took a long breath, and he tried to interject. “I didn-“

“The _fuck_ you didn’t! You said yourself you invented one, and you don’t even notice when a woman forgets it?! Bloody likely.”

Edging closer, she gripped the back of the highback chair, knuckles white. He wondered if she was strong enough to beat him to death with it. It was looking like a possibility.

“I’ve nev-“

“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!” Escalating to yelling, she ranted on, “I don’t know what your plan was, but so help me Merlin, I’m not going to be a part of it. I’m not that late, but I swear to Godric, I am _not_ going down like _that_.”

She stepped in front of him, and he regretted starting the kettle. It was really going to hurt when she hit him with it.

“Wha-“

“You fucking Purebloods and your fucking dynasties and your scheming and-“ Articulation failed her and she screamed, wordless.

With little preamble, her fist shot forward. He’d expected the kettle, but was able to dodge, nonetheless, grabbing her wrist in the pivot.

He held her wrist tight while she glared at him. “I might occasionally take a hit if I feel I deserve it, Granger.” He released his grip, and she stepped back. “But I haven’t done anything.”

She screamed again, and lurched forward to shove his chest with both hands. Stumbling back, he caught himself on the edge of the sink.

He took a deep breath. “Granger, you need to leave. Or I will. But I don’t trust you alone in my home, so I’d rather you be the one to leave. Please.”

Quietly, he was proud of his own patience. Salazar knew Magnus had shown him infinite amounts of it when he’d had similar outbursts. 

It was oddly soothing to be the one creating a gracious path away from imminent combustion, not the one charging headlong into it.

It was the “ _Please_ ” that got her. And that he didn’t trust her now in the same place he’d begged her to stay just weeks ago. She’d run out of words, and sat heavily in a kitchen chair, hiding her face in her hands. 

Her shoulders shook, and he assumed she was crying. Legilimency could illuminate the situation wonderfully, but she’d fucking flay him alive if he tried it now. The kettle whistled while he chose his words carefully, knowing she certainly had another tirade at the ready.

“I’m sterile.” He let the statement hang, watching her lift her face to stare at him in disbelief. “So if that’s what this is about, I’m willing to listen, but I’m not on trial here.”

“Bullshit,” she spat. “Your family legacy is a legacy to its own legacy.”

He nodded, setting the kettle, mugs, and tea on a tray. “That’s why I did it.”

“They’d disown you,” she countered, scrubbing the dried tears from her cheeks.

Cautiously, he set the tray on the table and took the chair at the same corner as her.

“At that point, they all but had.” He readied the tea, and she watched quietly. 

“Shall I be mother?” he offered, winking and pouring her cup.

Her lip quirked in an almost-smile. “You’re a bit of a ponce when you want to be.”

Shrugging, he poured his own cup and waited. She rewarded him by clasping the mug in her hands and not making a move to throw it. 

“I pissed in a mug tonight. That was a first,” she said, taking a tentative sip.

Humming in interest, he matched her sip. “Muggle custom?”

A genuine smile graced her face. “Almost. Pregnancy test.”

His mug paused halfway to his mouth. “Their dishes detect pregnancy?”

“No, no,” she laughed, finally easing. “It was just a convenient vessel. For urine.”

“Well?”, he probed.

“Not pregnant,” she replied. “Well, like 99% not pregnant.”

Looking up, she was surprised to see him wide-eyed in shock. “What?”

“You said you were a day late,” he said. She nodded. “And you’re 1% pregnant. That’s still plenty fucking pregnant, Granger.”

It was his turn to panic. One percent of a baby was plenty of fucking baby. Maybe his body had reversed it? Maybe it hadn’t worked that well after all and there _were_ mini-Malfoys running around Europe? Or maybe she’d forgotten when she fucked Potter, too? Or maybe Potter had amazing swimmers? That would be very like Potter.

“One percent is sort of the margin of error of that test. Not a measure of fetal growth,” she explained carefully.

“Oh, thank Merlin.” He wiped a trace sheen of panic sweat from his upper lip. “So this,” he gestured vaguely to the room, “was for a 1% chance and a day late?”

“I… yeah,” she hesitated. “Not terribly logical when you put it like that.”

“And I’m going to venture a guess that if you’d have forgotten the charm with Weasley or Potter, you probably wouldn’t have torn into their kitchen to shove them around. And in a towel, to boot.” 

He let a little of his anger seep in. Her fear was understandable, but her actions weren’t encouraging.

Staring at her tea like it could absolve her of her actions, she whispered, “No. I wouldn’t have done that to Ron or Harry.”

“Because?”

She frowned at him in confusion. “Because… they’re… not you.”

“Can’t say I’m not hurt. Not surprised. Not unsympathetic.” He shook his head softly. “But I have no intention of being your whipping boy who puts out on the side.” He swirled his tea, thinking. “Frankly, I’ve had it too good to be treated that poorly again.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that, but remorse and a certain tenderness filled her chest and tightened the corners of her mouth.

“I’m sorry. I did jump straight to the worst possible conclusions. And then scream you out of a bath,” she sighed, “and hit you.”

“Worst of all, though, Granger,” he said softly, “was that you assumed a lot of my parents’ motivations.”

She nodded. He was right. Falling back into accusations and assumptions had come so quickly.

“Unlike my parents, I do not foresee a never-ending Malfoy legacy.” He hesitated, debating the directions this conversation could go. “And that’s why I had a drunk Quidditch coach operate on me with illegal magic.”

Tea sputtered from her mouth so hard, he leaned back to escape the spray.

Coughing, she gasped out, “You did _not_.”

“The only proof I have is my lack of progeny and a Legilimens projection, if you want to see that.”

“I think I do. I think I really, really do.” 

“Alright, scoot closer,” he said, reaching out a finger to her forehead. 

“Also, this might be graphic. In several ways,” he warned, not really remembering what all happened that night.

“Okay,” she shrugged, more excited than concerned.

—————————————

_Images flicked by so quickly that she couldn’t follow them. An open sky. Snow. Sea. A campus. A cottage. A bedroom._

_She saw from his viewpoint. She was laying reclined on a patchwork quilt. His despair was suffocating. It was difficult to concentrate on anything beyond the sucking void of hopelessness crushing her throat._

_The room was small, and tidy. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat on her naked hip, his hip, hand around the neck. “Do it,” she heard Malfoy’s voice say to an enormous man between his legs._

_Godric, the other man was gorgeous. And stark naked. And just massive. Kneeling, he towered over Malfoy. Flowering vines to match Malfoy’s bloomed up the man’s arm. His black eyes examined her. She felt the rumble of the man’s voice as much as heard it._

_“You’re sure, _äislking_?” he asked tenderly. He was stroking Malfoy’s thighs, concern evident in his tone._

_Desperate, furious affection burned in her chest for this man. He was Malfoy’s last thought at night, first thought in the morning, and centerpiece of his dreams in-between. He was everything._

_Hermione’s chest hurt, trying to digest the depth of trust between them._

_“Just try, Mag. I’ll lop the whole kit off before I let her do this.” Malfoy’s voice cracked, breaking into a sob._

_The man leaned down and kissed Malfoy. She couldn’t feel anything through the memory, but she knew he was eating each sob like he could rid Malfoy of his pain._

_Leaning back, the man grabbed a tiny, ornate knife off the nightstand, cut between his fingers, and made a small nick on each side of Malfoy’s scrotum. Chanting something inaudible, he carefully laid his bleeding hand flat over Malfoy’s groin. Malfoy’s legs twitched, his eyes shut, and he grunted several times. In pain, she thought._

_His hand brought the bottle up to his lips and he took another long swig. The bottle came down, and the man had finished._

_“Did it work?” Malfoy asked shakily._

_“I think so,” said the man, smiling tightly. “But you know we’ll have to clean out the pipes.”_

_Malfoy’s chest jerked as he chuckled. “So thorough.”_

_Relief flooded her, and she suddenly felt the vodka and their shared arousal. Relief and expectation chased the tension from her shoulders to pool between her legs as she watched the man rise._

_The man grinned, coming to straddle Malfoy, and the memory cut off._

—————————————

Blinking, Hermione was back in Malfoy’s kitchen in Truro. She had more questions now than before.

But she could hold onto them, because Malfoy’s tear-streaked face didn’t look open to interview. He wrapped his arms around his waist, suddenly feeling overexposed.

“Uhm. Sorry.” He wiped his eyes. “I wasn’t… I didn’t expect it to…”

He cleared his throat and refilled his tea. He straightened, expression shut down and face blank, he asked, “So, are we on the same page about not needing the charms, Granger?”

Alarmed at his abrupt formality, she stammered, “I… uhm, yeah. Alright.”

Perfunctorily setting the teapot back down, he watched the contents of his cup swirl. “The Ministry ward would have cancelled your charm out, anyway. Potter heroically fixed it. It’ll work now if you want to start using it again. If you ever see the need.” 

His ability to project an austere, buttoned-down facade while red-eyed, wild-haired, and all but naked was impressive. The Emperor sans clothes, she thought. Such a jarring departure from the Malfoy in that memory.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. It made more sense that he hadn’t noticed she didn’t use the charm if he knew beforehand it was useless. “Might have mentioned that at the time.”

One shoulder raised in a glib shrug. “I told you no magic would work in here. You tried to cast a _Lumos_ for a rather long time and failed, if I recall.”

A dull, burning ache crept through her pelvis, and her lips tightened in pain.

Watching her carefully, he took her grimace for rising anger. Good. If she went on another tirade again, she wouldn’t ask him any details about the memory he regretted sharing. He’d been woefully unprepared to view it himself.

What the fuck was it about her that made him think he could share parts of himself and not regret it? She was Granger. Pushy, hot-headed, know-it-all Granger. And she had every reason to hate him.

His own mental voice chided him in Magnus’ accent. It wasn’t her fault he’d overshared. Again. A sharp inhale from her caught his attention. She’d slid back from the table to lean her elbows onto her knees, eyes level with her tea. Her head drooped.

“Granger?” he asked warily.

She exhaled slowly. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Great, actually,” she said, rising. “I’m going to the loo.”

“Oh,” he said, shrugging and draining his mug. “Oh! Congrats.” She mumbled sarcastic thanks and headed through the kitchen.

Hoping she’d take it as a cue to leave, he cleared the table. The window over the sink was open, the cool breeze raising goosebumps as he washed the mugs.

The night outside the window over the sink was quiet. A large owl wheeled in the moonlight, and he hoped it was one from the Cardiff owlery, not one bearing a message. None of the eagles harassed it, so it must be one of his.

When those owls had become _his_ , he wasn’t sure. It still surprised him the eagles allowed them around at all. The owl ranks seemed to be depleting, and he hoped it was because they were wandering off to make homes for themselves.

He squawked and dropped a mug when a blood-slicked hand thrust itself under the faucet.

“Merlin, Granger!” he belted. “Warn a bloke.” He shook his head and looked her way. Instead of looking relieved, she still looked exhausted, and now in pain on top of it. Rather pitiful state, really.

She smiled wanly. “Sorry. No bathroom sink. Didn’t think you were so easily grossed out.” Her pants were undone still. She rinsed her first two fingers and thumb, drying them on her jeans.

“Startled, not disgusted. I’ve seen plenty of blood,” he replied, splaying his left hand to look at the faint fans of white lines between the fingers.

“About that,” she started, following his gaze. The “illegal magic” part of his memory description enticed her slightly more than the drunk naked Quidditch coach part. Slightly.

Drying his hands on his towel, he shook his head. “No, Granger. I’m not giving a Dark Arts theory lecture while you look like you’re ready to keel over. And trust me when I say I know what that looks like.” She slumped even more, if that was possible. Salazar, she’d gone from fury to painful defeat quickly.

“Take a pain potion and eat something, and I’ll consider it.”

“I didn’t bring anything with me. Well, other than,” she gestured with her now-clean fingers, “that stuff. And I’m not leaving without this lecture, now that I know about it. And I want to know why you’re so familiar with the nearly dead.”

He swore under his breath. “Your Animagus is probably a terrier. Little fucking rat terrier. All teeth and no sense.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Weighing his options, he sighed. “Fine. But not up here.”

——————————

The perfect rock was somewhere on the spring floor, but he couldn’t find it with his feet. 

“Scoot up a touch, Granger. And give me a second.” He slid under the water to look for the damn stone he’d been stubbing his toes on for years. It finally had a destiny, so it had chosen to hide. His toes had found the few valuables he’d stashed under the water, but not the damned rock.

Hermione slid up on the granite ledge, resting the nape of her neck on the edge. The stone was warm, and rough, and a pleasant distraction from the pain in her abdomen.

Rubbing the skin of her shoulders against the coarse grain felt wonderful. Her feet drew up, sloshing water up over her hips, then scraped their way back down along the gritty rock. She felt a certain kinship with Crookshanks and thought about buying him a new brush.

Malfoy’s head broke the surface, concentration written on his face as he silently slid through the water to her side. He looked like an otter with something in its paws, she thought. Her mouth quirked in a smile as he stood and set a rock the size of both his fists between her knees.

His hands hovered over her hips. “May I?”

She nodded, no clue what he was going to do with those hands. Fatigue from the last week was swiftly catching up to her, and she found she either trusted him or just didn’t care. Anything that meant she got to lay in the warm water, in the soft candlelight, in the quiet, for a few minutes longer was fine by her.

His thumbs traced her hip bones, wrists rotating so his fingertips met just below her navel. Lightly, he pressed with the one hand, then the other, slowly walking his fingertips lower.

The pain in her pelvis unraveled, and she groaned. He smiled knowingly, and kept pressure with one hand, while the other reached for the smooth rock. Replacing the pressure of his hand with the stone, he watched her face relax.

“Better?” he asked.

“Godric, yes,” she crooned, cradling her hands around the rock. It was heavy enough she could feel her pulse against it, but not so heavy that it was uncomfortable.

He sank in the water and drifted toward her head. “Hot rock to the baby crock,” he quipped. “Old medicine.”

She snorted, the stone bouncing. Sleep tugged at her, and she took several moments to choose her words carefully. “Why does a former Death Eater know so much about gynecology? Kind of an unexpected hobby, isn’t it?”

He frowned at the Death Eater reference, but let it slide.

“Perspective, that. A witch on the continent would ask why one of their preeminent Healers is under house arrest in the UK.” He stood at the top of her head, and she craned her neck to look at him, dipping most of her head in the water.

“What?!” she barked.

He scooped water in his hands, trickling it over her crown to wet the rest of her hair.

“I wasn’t even a _good_ Death Eater, but once Marked, always Marked, I guess. Rather small piece to judge the whole by.”

Frowning, she sorted through what she _did_ know about him apart from his family’s affiliations and prejudices. He… was rather good in Potions. And dueling. And most forms of magic, really.

He produced a bottle of shampoo from behind the ladder. “Thinking hard, Granger.”

“I… don’t think I know much beyond your school performance, some relationships, and general hatred of Muggleborns.”

She pondered, as she heard a bottle cap, and the scent of teakwood and honeysuckle filled the room.

Doling out a generous palmful of shampoo, he replied, “Marks, rumors, and lies don’t paint much of a picture, do they?”

“I guess not,” she said sheepishly.

The sound of the shampoo between his hands bordered on lewd, and it made her nipples tighten.

“I’d have been scared out of my wits, too, if I thought there was a one percent chance of procreating with who you think I am,” he mused, pausing with his hands over her crown. “Kind of makes sense to maybe get to know a guy. At least a little. Hm?”

Not particularly comfortable having her preferences challenged, she gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Fill in the blanks, Granger. You’re good at tests,” he announced. “During the Second Wizarding War and his subsequent Ministry evasion, Draco Malfoy attained the status of _blank_ within the Death Eater Dark Forces Bogeyman Brigade.”

Nostrils flared, she was more interested in the shampoo. The lingering scent of it was one she associated with him.

“This is a timed test, Granger,” he teased, sliding slick hands over her hair, spooling the wet curls around his palms.

“Uhm…” she began, eyelids getting heavy. “Lieutenant… something… something.”

“Tsk tsk, not even a real answer.” His fingers slid deeper into her hair, working a lather against her scalp.

“The correct answer was _Chief Healer_. Next question?”

Consternation knit her brow, but she hummed in agreement, eyes closing. His fingernails massaged the nape of her neck, and she really wished she were capable of purring.

“During academic years 1999 to 2002, Draco Malfoy simultaneously held the positions of _blank_ and _blank_ at Durmstrang Institute.” 

He worked his fingertips up around her ears to massage the small muscles at her temples, and earned a soft groan. _Someone_ was a stress-induced jaw clencher. _Someone_ named Hermione Granger.

“Uhm… Quidditch… something. And etiquette…something.”

Gathering up suds, he slicked his fingertips to the base of her jaw. “Open.”

She opened her mouth slightly, not a concern whatsoever as to why. He dug his fingers into overworked muscles between her cheekbones and ears, and an inarticulate pleased grunt leaked out of her open mouth.

“You’re failing this test horribly, Granger. The correct answers were _Healer_ and _Dark Arts Professor_. Only one question left. Maybe you can still salvage this.”

Her mouth snapped shut. “Dark Arts, not _Defense Against_ the Dark Arts?”

His fingers urged her jaw to relax again, kneading gently. “An Art is an Art. Who gets to decide which ones are Dark?”

She hummed, whether in agreement or pleasure, he couldn’t tell.

He fought the urge to lick and nip at her lips with her mouth parted so complacently. Soapy hands slid down to her right shoulder, kneading the muscles along the back of her neck.

“In 2003, prior to his capture by the Ministry, for which they were publicly and _embarrassingly_ censured by the International Confederation of Wizards, by the way, _blank_ approached him with a fellowship, pending ICW approval.”

Having turned her right shoulder into gelatin, he slid his hands to press the muscles of her upper chest, resisting a detour to her hardening nipples, then up to her left shoulder. This side was tighter. Probably her rucksack shoulder. She melted as his fingers pressed against small muscles.

“I… have no bones left. And no idea.”

“Are you _sure_ you’re Hermione Granger?” he prodded.

She growled softly at him, opening one eye. Easing her head down into the water, he began rinsing her hair. With her head tilted back, her ears were under water. He was speaking, but she couldn’t understand him, and she frowned. Satisfied with his rinsing, he lifted her head back up.

“The answer was _The Asklepieion of Kos_. Scoot back down and lay back.”

Again, she complied. He could have told her to cluck like a chicken, and she’d have likely complied with that, too. 

With a plop, he disappeared underwater, resurfacing with wet hair. She turned to watch him, slightly worried her head would simply roll off the ledge due to the lack of tension in her neck and jaw. She hummed contentedly “You did a lot in, what, five years? And what’s the Asklepieion of Kos?”

Lathering his hair, he slicked off the extra suds and spread them around his chest. His hands made quick work of washing his armpits, then disappeared below the water and between his legs.

“I did. I earned my keep. And stop frowning, Granger.” He caught her gaze as it traveled up from his concealed groin. “You’ve already seen this show.” 

He considered standing in a shallower part of the spring so she could watch him, but decided against riling her up. She looked like she was barely awake.

“Is the Asklepieion of Kos a Healers Guild? I think I’ve heard of it,” she drawled.

“It is the Guild the Guilds want to be when they grow up. The no-holds barred, all methodologies on the table institution St. Mungo’s wishes it could even affiliate itself with. Maledictus research, Dark Arts, Blood Magic innovation.”

“So, are you going to study there?” she asked, rolling her shoulders toward him as much as the stone allowed. Plotting academic futures was exciting enough to keep her awake.

“Granger,” he huffed, “I haven’t been allowed off this fucking island in four years. They admit one student a year. That ship sailed while I was still in Azkaban.” 

“That’s not fair,” she yawned. “You should reapply.”

“The Ministry cares very little about the professional development of war criminals,” he lectured, brusquely soaping his backside. “And one does not apply to Kos. One is sought out and invited.”

Crouching down in the water to rinse off, he wondered what her Muggle university process had been like. Maybe he _could_ simply ask them for another invitation in a year or two.

The water around him sloshed gently as he walked to her hips. Godric, she thought, he had no right looking so perfect. Water dripped down the lean planes of his torso, and candlelight glinted off the grey of his eyes. 

She smiled, remembering him flushed and sweaty, much like this, but wrapped in blankets after sex. He’d been downright goofy. With an almost-sob, she realized she wanted that again. Not abrupt goodbyes and terse clinical discussions and screaming matches. 

Gods, had she fucked up too badly to go back there? She’d all but taken his trust, chewed it up, and spat it back at him.

He watched her stretch, arching her back, and he froze as the urge to cover her slick, wet skin with his body rode him. 

His hands found her hip bones, and his thumbs gently dug in where the muscles of her abdomen met the flared crests of her pelvis. Unexpectedly, her body responded by parting her thighs in invitation.

“Granger?” he said, barely a whisper. His hands came to rest on the stone, thumbs stroking it in thought.

The weight on her pelvis suddenly felt extremely intimate. And she supposed it was, given he’d found her womb with his fingers and set the rock there. But with him so close, it felt like an extension of his body. A vague sense of eager entrapment crept through her.

“Hm?” she hummed, pondering the weight on her hips as being distinctly _his_ , and being rather comforting.

His brow creased, considering. “If I wanted you pregnant, you’d be very fucking pregnant,” he stated simply. It was a fact, not a threat.

“Oh,” she exhaled softly. She supposed a Healer probably would be able to do that.

His hands were careful as he lifted the heavy rock from her pelvis. She missed the weight immediately, but fought the urge to ask for it back.

He bit his lip. Hard. And blew out a deep breath. “Sleep with me tonight.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off. “Just sleep.”

“Okay. You still owe me a lecture.”

“A _vicious_ little terrier, I swear.”

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Blood Sacrifice

I’d love to be a martyr, for any cause but this.  
I’d die to be asleep, not soaked in blood and piss.

Or not wake up, and feel death’s velvet kiss,  
It seems akin to bliss.

DLM Hogwarts 1998  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **New chapters posted on Fridays at 5 pm, Chicago time.**
> 
> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	18. Cakewalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry, you were just supposed to transport Draco to the Goblin Gala and back. You were not supposed to get all fucked up on aphrodisiacs and embarrass yourself.
> 
> Molly, you were just supposed to tuck Harry in, not sit Draco down and have a heart-to-heart about his upbringing.
> 
> Draco, you enjoy that cake. You earned it.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

_Oui, Oui, Oui_ All the Way Home

Yes, yes, yes, but no.  
His body begs,  
He turns to go.

_Oui, oui, oui, mais non_  
Fuck off, ponce, now come on.  
Gods, not my fault I’ve withdrawn.

DLM 2007 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

He’d told Granger entirely too much again, Draco thought, hoisting library books to his hip. But had any of it been information she couldn’t have looked up in a good wizard library on the continent? Probably not, he mused, approaching his front door.

Hell, if he got in trouble with the Ministry, he could just lie and say she’d raided his bookshelves. The sentence for owning banned books was far less than that for teaching Blood Magic. Not that she would be able to do it.

Draco nudged his door open and froze. She was waiting for him. The other harpy. Just sitting on a kitchen chair. Glaring.

“Matilda,” he nodded in greeting, edging a wide circle around the eagle.

She made no move to gouge his eyes out or carve him up like a fucking ham, which was unusual. She also hadn’t touched any of the food he’d left sitting out. Or shredded any papers.

Suspicious, he cut a small piece of meat from a leftover trout and tossed it to her. She watched it arc through the air, pass next to her head, and plop on the floor. He picked it up and held it out to her, waiting for her to bite his fingers, but she did nothing.

Very odd, indeed. Cringing, he held the morsel between his lips and offered it to her. Almost grudgingly, she took it and gulped it down.

She had this week’s Portkey on her leg, and he untied the bag to find four bottle caps. Potter’s doing, he assumed. Why he would send four of them, Draco had no idea. Following Robards’ habits, most likely.

Matilda made a half-hearted display of biting his hand, but it was little more than a gentle nip.

“You are _not_ well, _ma oiseau_ ,” he cooed, frowning. She watched his fingers approach her, and leaned into them. A vast departure from her normal behavior.

She appeared healthy, he thought. She just looked… sad? Bored? Could birds feel ennui?

Experimentally, he traced a tendril of Legilimency over her little mind, and was rewarded with scattered images.

_A greenish-white egg on a makeshift pile of straw in the Ministry owlery._  
_Eggshells and a slick of yolk and blood._  
_Another egg. Another nest._  
_Another._

He withdrew from her mind, stroking his fingers over her head. He’d had no idea she’d been nesting every year. She had no chance of successfully hatching an eaglet in the middle of London while having to leave her nest to carry messages. Poor bird.

Gathering his own memories, he bundled them and filtered back into her.

_His cavernous childhood bedroom._  
_An enormous formal table with no one else seated._  
_His cell in Azkaban._  
_His empty bed._

He withdrew again, and she whistled high in understanding. They were both very alone.

He stripped off his shirt and wadded it around his forearm, offering her the perch. She hopped up, and he walked her into the bedroom.

She whistled, lower this time, and he chuckled.

“I know. It’s a lot of nest for just me,” he said. “Want to retire and build a proper aerie?”

Chortling and bobbing enthusiastically, she held out a leg. Unsure of what she wanted, he offered a finger. Surely she hadn’t learned to shake hands. Her talons wrapped around his finger, but she made no move to let go or shift her weight from his arm. She just watched him out of one eye, expectantly.

Wondering if using Legilimency on Ministry birds was even legal, he resorted to it again.

_An iridescent band slowly rotated around her leg._

“Ohhh,” he whispered. “Smart girl.” 

With a flick of magic, he broke the modified Avis charm and waited for the Ministry ward to screech in alarm. Nothing happened, and he shrugged, walking her back to the kitchen.

“The trout is yours. Happy retirement.”

She ripped into the fish enthusiastically, and he smiled. He would tell Potter tonight to just deliver messages in person. He seemed unable to stay away for long, anyhow.

“Don’t fall for the golden eagle out there,” he cautioned, leveling a finger at her. “He’s a-“

Her head snapped around, and he yipped and clutched his hand.

“There she is,” he muttered, inspecting the bite mark.

——————————

“Malfoy,” Harry demanded, poking his head around the corner of the hall to his bedroom. “Am I your date?”

He hummed, thinking. “Yes and no.” 

Circe’s snatch, Potter took a surprisingly long time to get dressed for someone who usually looked like he threw himself into a Muggle clothes dryer and just wore whatever stuck to him. 

Potter’s apartment was the most boring space he’d quite possibly ever chosen to grace with his presence. Clean. And surprisingly tidy. But pathologically boring. No art, no pictures, not even any real color. If a Dementor became an interior decorator, this would be how it would finish a space, Draco thought.

It appeared Potter had settled on a deep red shirt and gold tie. Once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor, Malfoy mused, before frowning at his own black on black ensemble. Habits, he shrugged.

Harry’s stack of men’s fitness magazines was…something. If this is what Muggle men looked like beneath their clothes, no wonder Granger had decided to play the field. Turning the page, there was an exquisite one literally sprawled on a playing field. Fancy that.

“Well, which is it? Yes or no?” Harry asked, rummaging through a drawer for Merlin knew what. Definitely not a comb. 

He’d been letting his hair grow out, probably per Granger’s request, and it was getting back to its old rambunctious ways. Draco secretly suspected Granger had made the request out of a desire to see someone else’s hair more unruly than her own.

“It’s both. The term _bedmate_ is used in non-wizard circles. It applies to anyone you’re romantically or sexually linked to. But mostly, you’re my transportation.” 

Draco turned a page to find a full-page picture of two shirtless men hugging, along with an article on how to ask women on dates. Oh, Muggles. “But the term does not denote a _direct_ link.”

Harry turned off the bedroom light, exiting with a tie draped around his neck. “So, will they assume you and I are dating, or will they somehow know we’re not?”

“They may indeed assume we are fucking, Potter,” Draco said resolutely. “And I warned you about the insults as friendly banter. So don’t turn red and tell them to fuck off if they suggest you like sucking my cock or something of that nature.”

Lo and behold, an article on how to suck cock. _For the woman in your life_ , the magazine touted. And it wasn’t even good advice, he judged, frowning. He looked up to tell Harry his reading materials were sorely lacking, but Potter was staring at him, slowly turning crimson.

“Did you strangle yourself with that tie, Potter?” Draco joked, setting the magazine back in the pile. It would be a mercy to toss the lot of them in the bin.

“What… what am I supposed to say to that?” Harry squeaked. “Am I supposed to just tell them they’re ugly?”

Draco sighed, standing from the table. Bringing his pet Auror with him meant he didn’t have to fly hundreds of miles each way, but Potter wasn’t going to make this easy. It was a pity the Goblins wouldn’t have tolerated Potter standing in a corner in his robes looking like a bodyguard. They had little respect or tolerance for the Ministry.

Draco stepped up in front of Potter, who was slowly fading back to his normal light tan with faint olive undertones. It had been an heroic blush, Draco thought, reaching up to Potter’s tie. He’d only ever seen the other man in a half-Windsor through school, and assumed it was the only knot he knew.

“You can call them perverts and deviants and lecherous leeches and any manner of insults at their intrusive questions,” he said, tucking the tie under Potter’s collar. “You can insinuate that they’re ugly, but only if you’re any good at it, which I suspect you are not.”

Luckily, Potter had chosen an overly long, thin tie. Adjusting the wide side of the tie to the correct length, Draco went to work weaving the narrow end up and through repeatedly, brow knit in concentration.

Focusing on the complicated knot, he tried to ignore the line of Potter’s body so close to his. The soft puff of Potter’s breath and warmth radiating from his chest was a touch too tantalizing. He sighed, remembering why he was tying this knot. Harry Potter and his obstinate disinterest.

“There,” he said, stepping back to survey his work. “That will help immensely.”

Harry felt the tie and frowned in confusion. “How is a rather large tie knot going to help me?” He looked down at the overlapping triangular knot.

“It’s a trinity knot,” Draco huffed, fully aware he was going to be called a ponce yet again. “It’s actually used to denote a _mènage à trois_. They will likely assume there’s a woman between us.”

It wouldn’t be wise, he thought, to tell him the Goblins may actually think they had a third man between them. Potter turned, and Draco waited for the insult, punctuating it with a flick of his finger.

“Ever the ponce,” he joked, a little relieved. “Useful ponce, though. Thank you.”

“If you’re ready then, my jailor,” Draco said wryly. Foreboding tickled through him, and he hesitated.

“Yup, let’s. I need to find out what a koboldozer is,” Harry said eagerly.

He slid an arm around Draco, and they Apparated out with a soft pop.

——————————

Harry was going to burn to death in the middle of the Goblin Gala. He was sure.

Everything was smoldering, and Malfoy had left him alone at the squat table to sweat it out. He tried to bend his knees, but they hit the underside, and he settled into crossing his ankles in the small space below the chair. 

Anything to distract from the distinct impression of being on the verge of combustion.

The Gringotts lobby reeked of acrid molten gold thanks to an enchanted fountain. As much as he wanted to dip something to keep as a souvenir, as others were doing; he very much wanted to keep his fingers. He also wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t get shoved into the bubbling smelting pot.

Which led to the next thing that was burning; his ears. Malfoy had been very explicit in his instructions to not look down to speak to Goblins, and it was killing his curiosity. He kept hearing the words “Auror” and “Ministry” and “Potter” and none of them were in a favorable light. Not that the Goblins were known for their praise, but he got the distinct impression his presence wasn’t appreciated.

Which, in turn, led to yet another blistering body part, his throat, as he’d managed to steadily consume both of their koboldozers. Malfoy had taken a sniff of his, hacked inelegantly through his nose, mumbled something derogatory about juniper, and handed his glass to Harry. 

The wall of bank teller kiosks had been turned into a bar, but operated with normal business efficiency. They had been required to submit magical and written signatures for their drinks, and Malfoy had signed a waiver on both their behalves. Either the Goblins were fanatical about forms, or their concoctions were to be feared.

So, Harry had been sitting alone at the low table, the shortest in the room, by Malfoy’s choice, sipping at the strange drinks. They shone like oil slicks in the wavering lantern light. In steadier light, they were an inky dark blue with sifting golden sparkles.

The liquid of the drink wasn’t bad, Harry thought. An odd mix of flavors. Gin and citrus on the tongue, but something oily and gamy in the back of the mouth. As long as he kept sipping, it was pleasant enough. The sparkles gave him pause, and he made a game of letting them settle between each sip.

Each glass currently had an inch or so of concentrated golden-cobalt liquid left, and he was officially bored. And hot. And conspicuously overdressed. 

He considered at least losing his tie. Malfoy hadn’t worn one. Nobody else had a damned tie on. Hell, several Goblins were shirtless. But the significance of the knot Malfoy had tied made him wary of removing it.

He looked up from swirling the bottom of a drink when a gruff voice addressed him.

“Best finish those, Auror,” a Goblin with red hair commanded. “Or you’ll end up like him.”

The Goblin pointed a gnarled finger across the room where a very naked, very male Goblin was giving a speech on top of a table. He was drawing quite a crowd, Harry noticed.

“Oh, here we go,” the Goblin said, as the naked orator produced an ornate golden chalice. “I’m Burgock, by the way.”

Harry shook the proffered hand, grateful someone was talking to him at all. Embarrassed, he noted how sweaty his hand was compared to the coolness of the Goblin’s palm. 

They must be immune to heat, he thought, looking around. But no, half the Goblins were in various states of undress.

“Uhm, your mother is a…” Harry trailed off, forgetting what Malfoy told him was a proper introductory insult.

“Ah,” Burgock dismissed. “You don’t have to. I’m not one to count it against wizards for speaking like wizards.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Harry sighed. Maybe the Goblins didn’t speak secret wizard tie language, either. He went to work loosening the knot and slipped the tie over his head.

The Goblin orator was still making a speech, most of the room hushing to listen. Harry could make out some syllables, but they didn’t make sense. Come to think of it, he hadn’t really heard any snippets of conversation that he’d understood well.

“I have something for Draco, if you’d care to call him over,” the Goblin directed. “I’d rather not brandish it in front of everyone.”

What was he giving Malfoy that he needed privacy for? Especially in a room of half-naked party-goers?

Harry looked at the Goblin warily, then quickly averted his eyes. He’d gotten a thorough lecture about Goblin etiquette earlier. 

Burdock shook his head in dismissal. “It’s gold. It will attract attention.”

Looking around the room, he didn’t immediately find Malfoy, which was surprising. He was the tallest person by several feet. 

The naked Goblin on the table was chanting something that was definitely in a different language. Several others joined him in the chant.

He spotted Malfoy, who appeared to be talking to a potted tree, but was actually speaking with the Goblin standing in front of the pot. The Goblin was entirely naked, and Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. His black shirt was still buttoned, in stark deference to Harry’s half-undone, sweat-stained shirt. Maybe this side of the room was hotter?

Harry waved timidly, trying to catch Malfoy’s attention, but not that of the remaining Goblins who weren’t chanting. The Goblin on the table silenced the crowd and held his golden chalice above his head.

“ _Libidentia!_ ” He yelled, pausing for a response from the crowd.

“ _Libidentia!_ ” Goblins hollered back from scattered corners of the room, mostly the scantily-clad ones.

The Goblin shook his head in disapproval and tried again.

“ _LIBIDENTIA!_ ” he challenged, saluting with the chalice.

The entire crowd joined in this time, including Malfoy, who paused from his conversation to turn and yell, hands cupped around his mouth, _”Libidentia!_

Turning back to the Goblin, and the tree, Malfoy noticed Harry’s waving hand and held up a finger in delay. Harry dropped his arm and pouted. And then questioned why Malfoy’s reaction made him sulk. Aurors don’t sulk.

The Goblin on the table levitated the chalice into the arched ceiling, letting it hover. Tendrils of gently looping white vapor cascaded from it, slowly forming a hazy cloud.

Burgock interrupted his little mope. “If you finish those drinks quickly, you _might_ still leave with some dignity, Potter.”

Harry shrugged him off, swirling a glass to watch the sparkles, not sure how drinking more would be helpful. Whatever was in a koboldozer wasn’t particularly strong, anyway. He was nowhere near drunk.

Sighing impatiently, he caught a whiff of teakwood. Harry looked up, expecting to see a tall black silhouette next to the table, but no one was there. In fact, Malfoy was still across the room, now talking to a different Goblin. The naked one appeared to be wandering off to join a group of other nude Goblins around the smelting fountain.

Malfoy looked up mid-conversation and caught Harry’s impatient scowl. His gaze examined Harry’s sweat-soaked, unbuttoned shirt, flushed cheeks, and came to rest on the sparkling bit of liquid swirling in Harry’s glass. 

Eyes suddenly widening in alarm, Malfoy excused himself with a gracious nod. 

He turned and stalked toward Harry like a dark siren, gaze hot and lurid. His steps and hips moved in perfect time with the faint beat of music starting up in the corner of the room. Trim black trousers did little to hide a bulge growing in time with Harry’s. Long legs strode through the crowd, and Harry’s breath shuddered as Falk’s memory of Malfoy straddling him surfaced.

His vision of the room faded, replaced by the recollection of pale thighs over his, fingers disappearing into Malfoy, thrusting hips, hard cock sliding through Falk’s hand. He swallowed thickly, vaguely aware he was making a faint mewling noise, as he imagined Malfoy’s tongue sliding between Falk’s fingers, gaze intense.

Cool skin slid over his own hand, and he yelped, room coming back in to focus. Furious grey eyes scrutinized him, scowling.

“Potter, you unmitigated fucking disaster,” Malfoy hissed. “Finish the drinks, then we need to leave.”

Malfoy’s fingertips suddenly withdrew from the pulse in Harry’s wrist, and he blinked rapidly. He wanted that touch back. And more. A lot more. Need burned down his chest and coiled low and tight.

“I can… I…” He wanted to say he was fine, and they didn’t need to leave. But all the words on the tip of his tongue felt suspiciously like begging.

“Ministry’s finest,” Burgock snorted, setting a small, white cardboard box and a business envelope on the table.

Malfoy dumped the contents of the glasses together and shoved the cup at Harry none too politely. Harry took it grudgingly, eyeing the box and envelope. It looked like a small bakery box.

“How long till the stabilizer hits him, Burgock?” Malfoy inquired, watching intently as Harry downed the rest of the koboldozers. 

Harry shuddered. The bottom of the glass came into view, oddly clean. None of the bitter, gritty remnants stuck to the inside.

“An hour, maybe? But he did drink two of them, so maybe longer,” Burgock estimated. “Or maybe it’ll just be worse. Hope you don’t need to sit comfortably tomorrow, Blackblood.” Burgock grinned lasciviously. 

“Your penetrating wit fails to compensate,” Malfoy fired back. “What do you have for me?”

Their conversation faded out as Harry tried to ignore the throbbing need in his pants. And his throat. And his hands. And his lips. 

Merlin, his own lips were so soft. Rubbing them together was nothing short of an orgasmic experience. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, scraping it against his top teeth and releasing it, feeling it swell slightly in response. It was just shy of too good.

Gods, did _Malfoy_ know how soft Harry’s lips were? Malfoy should know, Harry thought. He would like that. Malfoy loved soft things. Malfoy should get to feel his lips.

“Potter,” Malfoy barked sharply, startling his eyes open. Malfoy was glaring at him over a piece of paper. “Keep your eyes open.”

Malfoy’s scowl shifted to resignation as he folded the paper and slid it back in the envelope. Harry watched his fingers with rapt fascination. They were such pretty fingers.

“It’s our standard weekly Curse Breaker consultation fee, retroactively applied to the six months they’d been working on the charms,” Burgock huffed, rolling his eyes at Malfoy. “Plus a hazard prevention bonus. We’d already sent three assistants to St. Mungo’s.”

It had definitely gotten hotter, Harry surmised. Malfoy had even undone the first two buttons on his shirt. He wished he’d have kept his eyes open to watch Malfoy’s fingers pop those slick black buttons through the tight buttonholes. He chewed his lower lip as his own fingers found the buttons on his cuffs.

“That’s very generous,” Malfoy replied cooly. “But please reiterate to your husband that I’m not actually on his payroll.”

“Yet,” Burgock stated with a wink, sliding the box in front of Malfoy.

Sweat trickled down Harry’s back, and he shuddered as it trailed down his ass. Glancing around, he saw that the Goblins were all in various states of undress, and most were dancing. Malfoy, sitting calmly and fully-clothed, stood out even more now than when he’d loomed above the crowd.

“ _Potter_ ,” Malfoy snapped again. “Circe’s slit, man, keep your trousers on, at least.”

“I… I want…” Harry stammered, not really sure how he was going to finish the sentence, or if he could. 

He hadn’t noticed his hands were on the button of his trousers till Malfoy chastised him. And where was his shirt? And why was he still so fucking hot?

“I know, just… five minutes, and we’ll go home,” Malfoy replied, a thread of pity in his tone. “What’s in the box, Burgock?”

Harry groaned softly in interest, glad the music had gotten loud enough to drown him out. Malfoy was going to take him home, and that sounded amazing. Whose home? Hopefully Malfoy’s. 

His shoulders swayed slightly with the music, giving his body something to do while he waited. He could be patient. Especially if it meant going home with Malfoy.

A faint content hum rose from him as he remembered a glimpse of Malfoy’s bed and all the pillows, and the big fluffy comforter, and the innate knowledge they would all be just exquisitely soft, because they were Malfoy’s. And they would all smell like him. And Godric, he could smell him right now from across the table.

Burgock had been watching Harry's disrobing with an open snigger. His gaze was glued to the rather impressive tent in Harry's trousers, but Harry didn't feel the need to care about it.

“Just something I found in Narcissa’s vault. It’s not much compared to what your Auror has wrapped up for you here,” the Goblin leered. “Go on and guess.”

Malfoy huffed in annoyance and tossed the box back and forth between his hands a few times. Something solid thunked against the cardboard with each catch. Harry watched Malfoy’s hands intently, vaguely jealous of the bakery box.

“Cupcake!” Harry shouted, startling himself. 

Malfoy and Burgock slowly turned to examine him, and Harry was suddenly aware of his hands on his bare nipples. When had they done that?

“Pardon?” Malfoy invited, shooting an incredulous look at Burgock, who shrugged.

“I…” Harry started, losing focus in Malfoy’s withering gaze. Malfoy turned back to Burdock, shaking his head at Harry’s verbal inability.

 _”I-think-it’s-a-cupcake.”_ Harry blurted in one long strand of syllables.

Absolute peals of laughter cascaded from the Goblin as Malfoy fought to keep an austere mask in place. Embarrassment failed to tamp down his arousal, and Harry squirmed under Malfoy’s attention. Grey eyes softened by humor poured over him, brow creasing slightly in thought. Harry didn't mind. In fact, having Malfoy look at him felt good.

Malfoy turned back to Burgock and Harry pouted a bit. The room was still hot as fuck, his pants were entirely too tight, and gods, his body needed to _move_. But he could wait five minutes.

“An Urgruff counterfeit egg,” Malfoy stated, expression challenging the Goblin. “But you wouldn’t insult me to that degree.”

Burgock sputtered, flabbergasted, and replied, “That was my first impression, as well. A rather good one, too. But no, it was made by a Black. And so, as is our custom, it is yours.”

Harry watched Malfoy’s nimble fingers flick the box open, and his own breath hissed in as Malfoy slid his hand in the box to cup something. Fuck, he wanted Malfoy’s hand to cup _him_ like that. But harder. 

Harry’s hand had drifted to his lips, but he didn’t notice till his teeth dug into the sides of his knuckle. He must have made a noise, because Malfoy looked up from inspecting a large gold egg to brandish a finger, shushing him. 

It was a nice finger, Harry thought, shoulders catching the beat of the music again. It probably tasted nice, he imagined, leaning his head back, letting it sway. Maybe he’d get to taste it when they got home. Taste it, and lick it, and beg Malfoy to shove it up his-

_”Potter, open your thrice-damned eyes and get your hand out of your pants.”_

Harry’s eyes snapped open again, focusing on Malfoy’s scolding glare.

“No.” Harry said definitively. If Malfoy wasn’t going to touch him, then by Godric, he was going to do it himself. Nearly the whole room was naked and in various states of open shenanigans. Why should he have to hold himself to Malfoy’s standards?

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose in challenge, and Harry bit his lip in expectation. Heat pooled in his groin at Malfoy’s anger.

“Thank you, Burgock. I know exactly what it is,” Malfoy said, lips pursed, turning the egg in his fingertips. “And your timing is impeccable.”

Burgock turned and left with a grunt, looking reluctant. Harry scowled and flipped the Goblin off. He grinned and returned the gesture.

“If you’re done flirting with him, Apparate us to the Burrow, Auror Potter,” Malfoy instructed, standing and stuffing the egg in a trouser pocket.

Harry’s eyes slid down the other man’s body, lingering on his groin, admiring Malfoy’s ability to have a coherent conversation with what appeared to be a full erection. But then he hadn’t drank the koboldozers.

“Wait. What?” Harry stammered. “The Burrow?”

“Yes, the Burrow,” Malfoy responded, pulling Harry to standing and entwining his cool, clothed arm with Harry’s naked sweaty one. “I need to drop something off, and then we’ll go home.”

“Oh,” Harry said dumbly, entirely distracted by the muscles in Malfoy’s arm.

“Are you okay to Apparate?” Malfoy inquired, squinting at him. “Once splinched, twice shy.”

“I…” he stammered, torn between honesty about his current state and curiosity as to Malfoy’s splinching. “I’ll side-along. You Apparate.”

Malfoy’s mouth pinched in worry. “Can I do that? I don’t need the balding Weasel brother reporting to the Ministry that I’ve broken parole.”

Harry very much wanted to hug Malfoy. He looked scared and needed hugs. Long hugs. Malfoy would like long hugs even more with his shirt off.

Harry’s fingers were stuck, and Malfoy was glaring at him. His fingers were stuck in Malfoy’s hands?

“Potter, stop unbuttoning my shirt,” he admonished. “I’ll side-along you if you _promise_ I won’t get thrown back in Azkaban for it.”

“Promise,” he whispered, slowly pulling Malfoy’s hand to his face. “As long as our signatures are recorded together, they won’t know the difference.”

Malfoy’s fingertips _were_ very soft on his lips. And they _did_ taste good against his tongue. Slightly salty and vaguely metallic, but very enjoyable. 

The barely-there ridges of fingerprints tempted his tongue, and he slid them deeper, pinning them against the roof of his mouth. His tongue pressed harder against them, and sucked against the delicate ridges and whorls on the pads of his fingers.

Harry looked up to compliment Malfoy, but found him rather stunned. His other hand had slicked his blond hair back from his face, and his conflicted expression surprised Harry. His lips were parted in invitation, but his forehead creased in worry. 

Harry didn’t feel conflicted in the slightest. Touching Malfoy felt wonderful. Touching Malfoy’s lips would feel even better.

Malfoy snatched Harry’s hand out of the air before he could trace those lips. His hand around Harry’s wrist felt just as good as his lips would have, and it had pulled them closer. 

He could just feel Malfoy’s lips with his own lips, then. That was better, anyhow, he thought, leaning forward.

“Fucking hell, Potter,” Malfoy cursed, letting him go and sliding his arm through Harry’s.

With a lurch and a crack, they were standing outside the Burrow in the dark.

——————————

Hermione couldn’t sleep. Her bed wasn’t big, but it _felt_ too big. Every time she rolled over, there was…nothing… no one. The vellum-bound primer sat on her nightstand.

Without thinking, she opened a random page, holding it up to the light filtering in from the street outside:

_That Are Witches Made Of_

_What are our potions made of?  
What are our potions made of?  
Frogs and snails and heliopath tails,  
And that are our potions made of._

_What are young witches made of?  
What are young witches made of?  
Sugar and spice, true love that cuts twice,  
And that are young witches made of._

_What are matriarchs made of?  
What are matriarchs made of?  
Tender years, their collective dried tears,  
And that are matriarchs made of._

_What are cunning crones made of?  
What are cunning crones made of?  
Customs and grace, and wars with the Fates,  
And that are cunning crones made of._

Less nonsensical than other passages, she thought. She closed the book and rolled over, contemplating buying more pillows to snuggle up against.

————————————

“He’s got _WHAT_ in him?!” Molly hissed, snapping her head back around from watching Ron escort Harry upstairs.

“Uhm… Two glasses of Goblin-strength aphrodisiac, minus the stabilizers, and lungs full of a lust potion,” Draco admitted, staring at his feet.

“ _HOW??_ ” Molly demanded, cocking her head to listen to Harry yell something at Ron upstairs.

“Uhm, I…” Draco stammered, thoroughly cowed. “I left him alone with both our koboldozers.”

“For Godric’s sake,” Molly swore. “Bill and Fleur split a single one, and I got a granddaughter out of it.” 

Not a bad deal, in her opinion. But it was the reason she’d immediately shot down Ron’s idea of taking Harry to Hermione’s flat. Some solutions just lead to more complications. 

And she had suddenly learned entirely too much about her son and Harry and Draco’s sex lives from a rambling Harry. Ron had herded him upstairs after that. A sit-down with Hermione was on her to-do list now.

“Right…” Draco continued. “So, he got bored and swirled the stabilizer to the bottom and only drank the aphrodisiac. But…double.”

Molly glared at him, not appreciating being awoken at midnight to take care of a grown man who’d done childish things.

“And then they lit the Libidentia…” Malfoy waited for her to scream at him. “And… long story short, I would really appreciate it if he stayed under an Anti-Apparition Charm tonight. Here. Away from me. Please.”

“Oh,” she exhaled, comprehension dawning. “Oh, no. I may just sedate him. I think he can break our wards.”

Draco nodded slowly, grateful Molly understood. He really didn’t need a naked and deliciously needy Potter showing up banging on his door tonight.

“Wait in the kitchen, Draco. And help yourself. I’m going to nip this in the bud.”

Awkwardly, he stepped inside and made his way to the kitchen to wait in the dark. For what, he had no idea. But the kitchen smelled like cake, and the chair by the fireplace was comfortable.

A series of thuds and scuffles resonated through the ceiling, and he heard Potter saying his name. Guilt kept him from relaxing into the tufted seat. 

He’d read the waiver when he signed the drinks out, which specified _one_ drink per attendee, and cautioned against letting the sparkling sediment settle.

It had _never_ occurred to him that Potter would interpret holding his drink as a suggestion to consume it. Nor that Potter would practically overdose himself on straight carnal desire out of boredom. 

Gods, the man really was a walking disaster, he thought with a soft smile.

And then they’d lit the Libidentia, which was commonplace to him. It had been a routine addition to the Hufflepuff and Slytherin common room parties. If any groups were to inundate themselves with the scent of who they lusted after, it was cuddle puddle-prone Hufflepuffs and sexually-adventurous Slytherins.

The potion had only ever smelled like sex to him. Sweat and bodily fluids. It did occasionally smell more masculine versus feminine on certain days. But he’d forgotten how strongly some people react to it. Potter was apparently one of them.

Rubbing his face in his hands, he suspected he knew who Potter had smelled, and was never, ever going to ask him. And he would never be bringing Potter to a Goblin party again. Unfortunately, Burgock had been thoroughly entertained, so he expected invitations.

Startled by sudden illumination, he sat up, watching Molly walk into the kitchen through rapidly-blinking eyes.

“Just lurking in the corner in the dark, hm?” Molly questioned.

He shrugged, not looking up, not eager to explain his magical restrictions yet again. 

“Two charms and a potion, but he’s asleep. I’m rather impressed you got him here with his trousers still on,” she said off-handedly. “Noble of you.”

Watching her with a carefully blank face, he wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment. Did she think he was likely to have his way with a decidedly uninterested but currently intoxicated Potter?

A tiny divot in the stone tile between his feet caught his eye. The center of it was black, and looked deep. He toed it with his shoe, eager to focus on anything else.

“Your mother did that,” she stated, flicking a kettle and tea into movement.

His gut dropped. He’d wanted to leave as soon as he’d gotten Potter in the house. Staying for tea and discussing his mother sounded like the absolute worst way to spend the wee hours of the morning.

He shrugged again, not knowing what kind of response she expected.

Molly pulled a kitchen chair over to the other side of the cold fireplace and sat, facing him.

“She was aiming for you when she did it,” she said rather matter-of-factly.

He looked up to read her expression, but was distracted by a sudden draft down the chimney. It smelled of rain. Cold rain. Great. He was stuck here till he could fly home.

The teapot and cups drifted over to settle on the knee-high hearth, clinking musically.

“Her aim improved,” he said candidly, but it landed with more bitterness than he’d intended.

Molly scowled and flicked her wand to light a fire, then back again to pour the tea.

“Did you know she sent an invitation to Ginny?” Molly asked softly, setting a teacup and saucer on the hearth next to his leg.

He racked his brain for what on earth she was talking about. She’d invited Ginny Weasley to Azkaban? The Manor? No…

His mouth dropped in horror. Why on earth would Narcissa have done that? Spite, he assumed. The woman had venom for blood.

“Gorgeous invitation,” Molly clipped, sipping tea through tight lips.

Either the fire was exceedingly hot, or he was on the verge of panicking. Exhaling slowly, he picked up the tea. What did she want from him? An apology for what Narcissa had done? An excuse? 

This felt like a trap.

“Mrs. Weas-” he started, but caught her scowl. “Molly. I’m aware of what kind of person Narcissa Malfoy is. Keenly aware.”

Lightning flickered out the window behind him, and he slouched. He was going to be stuck here a while. Stuck in this chair. Stuck in this conversation.

She was a little taken aback by his frankness. If he’d tried to explain away his mother’s actions or rationalize them, she was prepared to argue with him in his own defense. But for him to summarize his assessment of her with such candor? 

That was surprising. And heart-breaking. The boy didn’t even hold the illusion of having a mother anymore.

“I’d have killed her when I killed your aunt if I’d have known the Ministry would wave it off like they did,” she whispered.

 _Huh_ , he thought, hiding his shock behind his teacup. Molly Weasley, Matriarchal Mercenary. He mulled the possibilities as he rolled the tart scarlet tea in his mouth. It would have worked out rather well if she had, to be honest. 

“At least she’s miserable now,” he said glibly, knowing better than to get lost in the mental death maze of lost potentialities.

“True,” Molly said firmly, with a flick of her wrist. “For life, correct?”

A plate of chocolate layer cake utterly smothered in ganache floated past his nose, and he didn’t bother suppressing an anticipatory shiver.

“Uhm,” he swallowed thickly, “maybe. Or released this year.”

He licked his lips, moderately concerned he was drooling, eyes not leaving the cake. It was the climax of everything cocoa, sugar, and butter strove to become. The zenith of baked goods.

"Buttercream can go fuck itself,” Draco whispered to himself as a slice laid itself on a plate and drifted toward him.

A fork drifted toward him from the counter, lagging behind and taking entirely too long. His finger swiped up a dab of chocolate and brought it to his mouth. 

With a start, he realized he was sucking the same finger that had been in Potter’s mouth minutes ago. Auror spit did not detract from the…

“Hazelnuts?” he accused. “Hazelnut oil? Is nothing sacred in this house?”

Molly nodded, cracking a wide smile as he dug in. None of the family had noticed her heretical lipid substitutions. Let alone had appeared to appreciate them.

“How can she be facing a life sentence _or_ being released next year?” Molly asked, confident he wasn’t going to bolt now. Again, she cursed Narcissa for making this child so skittish in the face of kindness.

“Depends,” he said, washing a bite down with the tart tea and a smack of lips, “on whether a Wizengamot committee decides my upbringing should be considered a criminal offense. Many criminal offenses. For both of them.”

“Hm,” she said, mentally shuffling through all the Wizengamot members she knew. “Who’s on this committee?”

“No idea,” Draco replied, dissecting the layers on his plate for optimal ganache to cake ratio. “They don’t exactly value my input.”

“Would you like a witness to testify?” Molly offered, giving him a moment to let the ramifications sink in.

Ministry obfuscation and backroom dealings were the main topic of conversation at so many Weasley family dinners anymore. But if she could put her knowledge and name to good use, it would be worth having endured the tedious gossip.

“Hm,” he puffed. “Never considered it. Relevant witnesses are all dead or in Azkaban, and Death Eaters. But yes. That would be… significant. Talk to Potter about it in the morning.”

Shaking her head softly in confusion, she faltered a bit. “Why would I tell Harry?”

Draco looked up from his plate, dubious. “Because he’s in charge of my case? And parole? And general existence?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, flustered. “He doesn’t talk about work much.”

Draco shrugged, unsure of what Potter _did_ talk about at Weasley dinners. Quidditch scores and bumble-fucking his coworkers, probably.

Scraping the last of the crumbs from his plate, he noticed the cake plate drifting back toward him. It rotated mid-air to offer him a second slice, but he shook his head in declination. There was such a thing as too much ganache.

The rain was letting up, but he eyed the window less eagerly than before. Molly’s undivided attention was intense, uncomfortable, but also benevolent and nebulously protective. Like he was being interrogated for his own benefit.

“I have a proposition for you, Draco,” she stated firmly.

Dread clenched around the cake in his stomach, but his expression was passive. Did it have to do with Ginny? Was that why she’d brought up the invitation? Merlin Almighty, he’d put his dick in a meat grinder before he’d put it in Ginevra Weasley.

He sighed and loaded a second piece of cake onto his plate. If he ate it slowly enough, it might sit well.

“I’m listening. With ample trepidation,” he warned, dissecting the second piece.

“I’ve maintained the Black family hearth rug down the Prewett line, and I’d like you to take it home,” she said carefully. “If you want. I understand the implications.”

Unbidden, the old rhyme came to his lips. _”Matting by a mother piled,  
An offer, then, to raise the child.”_ His fork tapped idly against his plate to the cadence.

“Mm hm,“ she hummed softly, letting the offer hang in the air between them.

She knew it was a weighty proposal, and both an unorthodox but very traditional one. It had only taken her a decade to finally approach him about it.

Transferring the family’s hearth rug was generally reserved for orphan adoptions, but _damned_ if this boy wasn’t alone in the world, and _damned_ if it wasn’t slowly crushing her to watch him suffer because of it.

It took him three full bites of cake and a half-cup of tea to formulate a response.

“Tell me about the cut on the baby’s hand first,” he murmured, mulling the swarm of potential ramifications.

“I… I was Initiated by my grandfather. My parents never knew. And I Initiated my children and grandchildren,” she rambled, grateful to finally talk to someone about her family’s secret history with Blood Magic. “Audrey and Fleur know. But Arthur and my children don’t know. They’d be furious.”

Draco sat up, grinning. This was too rich, he thought. Esteemed Members of the Order of the Phoenix secretly Initiating their children in the Dark Arts while railing against it publicly. Creating the fucking laws that persecuted its practice. The hypocrisy was delicious.

“All successful?” Draco asked, especially curious about the part-Veela children. He’d always suspected the Pureblood requirement had never been true.

“Yes, so far as I can tell,” she responded proudly. “None of them have any training, but I didn’t want to have that door closed to them.”

“Huh,” he said, noncommittally. This meant Ron could pick up Blood Magic if he wanted to. And Ron would absolutely want to.

“Huh,” he repeated, an improbable giddiness rising. “I… I accept your offer. I’ll blast out a hearth. No, wait. Send Ron over with the rug and a knife, _his_ knife, and I’ll have _him_ blast out a hearth, and we'll bind it.”

Molly beamed at her offer being accepted. She’d wanted to shuffle this boy under her wings for over twenty years. Better late than never. And he seemed rather pleased about it.

“Merlin’s tits,” he swore, thinking more to himself. “If Ron knew some decent healing spells, he wouldn’t have needed me. And maybe wouldn’t have blown his leg off to begin with.”

“Fleur told me you were a rather sought-after Dark Arts professor,” Molly led, goading him a bit.

Nostalgia lanced through his chest, and he sighed. “Yeah. I guess I was. But that’s not exactly something to brag about here.”

“No,” she mused, swirling her cup. “But it’s a skill I’d value my son and perhaps grandchildren having.”

“Oh,” he sighed, giving in to the urge to lick his plate. “You are a devious one, Molly Weasley.”

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Ursa Major

Matting by a mother piled,  
An offer, then, to raise the child.

Red hair, wide skirts, acrid tea.  
Not sure what you see in me.

Death threat wreathed in bouquet form.  
Sisters’ embrace already torn.

But how deep runs your enmity,  
To offer such serenity?

DLM 2007 Devon  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	19. Elvan Ballshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron, nice guy. Does illegal stuff. But nice guy illegal stuff.  
> Hermione, sad girl. Starting to realize how lonely she's been.  
> Draco, reluctant Seer. Coming to grips with this shit.  
> Harry, bisexual on fire.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

The AWOL All-Aboard

First flight, last hope.  
No safer house than built by Death  
First flight, last hope.  
Then home is but a forlorn joke  
You can’t leave now, don’t waste your breath,  
Not when we’re cruising at this depth.  
First flight, last hope.

DLM 1998 Estonia  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

Ron smeared a fifth damn spider across his desk with today’s Prophet. Weird, but he was too tired to make sense of it.

He’d come in before dawn to finally extract the jewel out of that damned Horned Serpent. Five magizoology texts, a bottle of Firewhiskey, and a set of pure silver calipers, and it had come out intact.

The texts said the gem and the heart were important, so he’d boxed them up and handed them off to Seamus Finnigan over coffee. His cousin Fergus knew someone in Cork who had some Choctaw contacts. With any luck, the package would make it to the States for a proper send off. It wasn’t like he could sell them without raising suspicion.

“Mr. Weasley!” Jacinda’s shrewd voice echoed down the hall. “The WonderWitch section is overrun by spiders!” 

“ _Arania Exumia_ ,” he whispered, trailing his wand around the perimeter of the small room. A dozen brown and black spiders fled out into the hallway, followed by a shrill scream.

Hacking the damned beast to bits and feeding it to hatchlings had actually taken longer than removing the gem. But the pile of scales drying in the hatchery was worth it. And Ollivander’s had paid a fucking ransom for that horn. Enough to potentially buy up neighboring properties.

A rather tidy deal, if anyone asked. Nobody ever would. Hopefully.

“Jace, round up the older staff and have them circle the building with that charm. Tell the younger ones we’re working on a new spider illusion,” he instructed, shoving his way down the hall to the basement door.

“But all the customers-“ she started.

“Will expect a new spider illusion product. Which we can work on,” he assured. “I have to check on the stock downstairs.”

“Oh, right, then. That would sell well for Halloween,” she contemplated as he brushed past her and headed for the door at the end of the short hall.

Scowling, he surveyed the steady stream of spiders making their way up the walls of the stairwell.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. 

It couldn’t be, he thought, tucking his shirt in his trousers and his trousers into his socks. He’d only seen a spontaneous exodus of spiders once in his life.

The arachnid cavalcade seemed to be tapering off as he descended into the furnace-filled hatchery. The dozen oven-size metal drums all glowed steadily through their grates, and a quiet crunch alerted him to a soon-to-be hatchling.

Sighing, he leaned his forehead against the door at the bottom of the last staircase. There was only one thing known to cause a spider evacuation.

A fucking Basilisk. If someone had dumped him a dead Basilisk, would the spiders still evacuate? Doubtful.

He rolled his forehead against the cool metal of the rather ordinary-looking door. In theory, he could open the door a crack, slip his wand in, and just hit the whole room with the Killing Curse.

In reality, he couldn’t be absolutely sure there wasn’t a person in there without checking. And casting Unforgivable Curses within stone’s throw of Ministry headquarters seemed like a great way to get caught.

“ _Lumos Umbra_ ,” he whispered, cracking the door and letting the light settle on the far side of the room. The counter-light spell would throw a helpful shadow in his direction.

Sharp lines cast by the long metal table reached toward him like skeletal fingers, but nothing moved. His eyes scanned the floor, starting at the doorway, carefully crossing and re-crossing the room.

Nothing moved on the floor, so if anything was alive in here, it was on the table.

“Stupefy. _Petrificus Totalus_ ,” he spat, flicking his wand toward the table, not sure if those even worked on Basilisks. 

Something long cast an indistinct shadow on the table, thicker at one end than the other. Something green, and thankfully not moving.

Panic sweat soaked the armpits of his t-shirt, and he concentrated on steadying his wand as he walked to the table.

“ _Segmentum Esca_ ,” he said with a wand flick, a hand’s length from what he thought was the head. 

He flinched and closed his eyes as the shadow shifted with a wet plop. The head rolled free, he hoped, conflicted over using his mum’s kitchen spells for such nefarious purposes.

Slowly, so slowly, his eyes traveled from the narrow end of the length, not noting any movement, up to the bloody stump. Still not willing to look at even a decapitated Basilisk head, he shimmied out of his t-shirt and threw it over the end of the table with the head.

There was no note anywhere on the table. Nor was there anything tacked to the massive Floo. Odd. Even when his clientele didn’t identify themselves, they always left a note specifying the parts they wanted. He left those parts on the table, and they left money. 

No contact. Except for fucking MACUSA, the tossers. They’d brought forms. In triplicate. Now he had a pseudonym. Which he’d already forgotten.

Gathering the shirt under the head, he hefted it in his hands. It was a decent-sized Basilisk. Nothing like the monster at Hogwarts, but no baby. The skull was at least as big as his own.

Could dead Basilisk eyes still kill and petrify? Were they valuable? Probably, he shrugged. He’d sure feel better harvesting the fangs without the eyes there.

Desperately wishing he hadn’t used the whole bottle of Firewhiskey on the Horned Serpent, he opened the drawer of the table to grope for a specific dull, cupped blade.

With a grimace and two sickening, squelching pops, he had a grotesque, sightless head, and a leather bag with two, he assumed, lethal yellow eyes. The bag sat on the table like some kind of absurd scrotal mockery.

“ _Stabit Putredi._ ” There, he thought. The head could wait till he was good and ready for an early morning of dental extraction. And another horn removal, he observed. 

The Basilisk at Hogwarts hadn’t had horns. Shrugging, he wondered if Ollivander’s had any use for those. And if it was wise to inundate them with rare wand cores.

The headless body was at least twice as long as he was tall, the distant end curled back around on the table. Working quickly, he used his wand to begin dissecting it into chunks fit for hatchlings.

“Basilisk steaks,” he muttered to himself, mildly curious what they tasted like. Chicken, probably.

Not for the first time, he wondered what Hagrid would think of this room. Of him. He felt a certain kinship with the fellow bearded bachelor, but it wasn’t flattering. Was he becoming some macabre version of Hagrid? The Krampus to his St. Nicholas?

Nah, he thought, wrinkling his nose. Hagrid never got bouquets and toe-curling blowjobs from brilliant gorgeous witches. Probably. Oh, gods below, what if Hagrid did? Scowling in disgust, he purged _that_ mental image quickly.

Out of the corner of his eye, a slight ripple in the scales of the underside caught the light.

“ _Lumos Duo_ ,” he mumbled, holding his wand in his mouth and rolling the creature’s remaining length over.

Pale green scales rippled as forms writhed beneath them, and darkness swallowed the room when his wand clattered to the ground.

“Shit shit shit shit…”

Groping under the table with shaking hands, he recast the light spell and re-examined the specimen on the table. A small opening further down the belly was slowly dilating, and he froze, watching a leathery white orb press against the gap.

“Oh, fuck me,” he whispered, grabbing the remaining section by the tail and making a dead sprint for the stairs and the furnaces. 

Fucking impossible, he thought, lungs heaving and legs pumping. Fucking biologically, magically, herpetologically impossible. Someone had sent him a female Basilisk with viable fucking eggs. 

It was worth a thrice-damned fortune.

He paused, hand hesitating on the warm metal of the handle into the hatchery. This thing could make them one of the wealthiest families in Europe. There had to be a dozen eggs in there. Each worth a lifetime of work. King Weasley, indeed.

Shaking his head, he pulled the door open. No, he thought. Anyone who wanted to buy a Basilisk was exactly the kind of person who shouldn’t own one. These little bastards were too dangerous, no matter the profit.

Whether dragon hatchlings would eat this or if Basilisks were immune to fire, he had no idea. He might just end up with very hot Basilisks and a dead hatchling.

A pointed copper snout stuck out from a grate, and he quickly examined the new hatchling. A Peruvian Vipertooth? Charlie and George had some explaining to do with this one. But, if any dragon were capable of consuming Basilisks, it would be the most venomous one.

Judging by the little guy’s flared nostrils and flicking tongue, it was eager for a bite. He opened the side chute on the metal barrel and slid the tail in. A happy squawk responded, followed by enthusiastic rending of flesh.

The snout poked through the grate again, squeaking happily.

“Eat up, little ginger,” he sighed. “Plenty more where that came from.”

———————————

“I don’t really bake,” Hermione said timidly, unsure why Molly was writing out copies of recipes for her. “I mean, I can. I’ve only ever used Muggle appliances, though.”

“Oh, those should all work just fine in a Muggle kitchen,” Molly said, preening. “Heat is heat and food is food.”

Intensely uncomfortable, she shifted on the kitchen stool and watched Molly duplicate what looked to be a laborious recipe for chicken pot pie.

“Now, this one, I want you to give it to Draco first,” she instructed. “I don’t know what he did, but it turned out better than usual. Of the four of you, he’s certainly the kitchen witch.”

“Uhm,” she muttered, flush creeping up her chest. “The four of us?”

“Oh, yes, dear,” Molly replied, moving on to the next recipe. “Draco dropped off a rather… intoxicated and talkative Harry a few nights ago.”

Hermione’s tongue felt too large for her mouth as she tried to comprehend the situation. Molly knew. Not just that she was sleeping with Ron, but with all of them. And she was… alright with it?

“Oh, love, don’t give me that look.” Molly chided. “By the time I was your age, I’d had five babies.”

Distantly, Hermione wondered if she could actually choke on her own tongue out of embarrassment. All she’d wanted to do was bring Ron a bouquet. And sure, she’d been meaning to catch up with the rest of the Weasleys, but one-on-one girltalk with Molly hadn’t been on her agenda.

“Not that I think you _should_ be,” Molly clarified, handing her a muffin recipe. _The_ muffin recipe, Hermione noted. “Just that I understand the… urge.”

 _Oh, gods below, take me now_ , Hermione thought. Molly was the last person she wanted to talk about her urges with. Though, come to think of it, there hadn’t been any women she _had_ ever talked to about it.

Her mum had never bothered to discuss it. It hadn’t been a topic of conversation in school. Or uni. And she hadn’t had many close female friends in… ever. Hmm.

Everything she knew about her own body she’d learned from reading. And the Internet, for good or for bad. But none of that had dealt with witches.

“Is it…” Hermione forced the words out, “different for witches versus Muggles?”

Molly paused in the middle of a chocolate cake recipe that looked to have an obscene number of steps. She thought, tapping the soft feather tip of the quill against her chin.

“You know, dear, I’m not sure,” she admitted. “When Muggle women don’t scratch the itch, do they run a fever?”

“No,” she said resolutely. “They don’t. But neither have I.”

Thinking back, she tried to remember the last time she’d had a dry spell, and it had been… a very long time.

“Well, maybe you’ve just done a good job keeping on top of it,” Molly offered, finally closing her recipe book and slipping it back onto a shelf.

“Now,” she said, standing in front of Hermione. “The awkward bit.”

Hermione gulped. This would be the part where Molly told her to stop sleeping with Harry and Malfoy and marry Ron and move into this house and spit out little Weasleys.

“Since your parents are Muggles. Muggles on the other side of the world,” she added for emphasis. “And you and all three of your beaus we consider family already, _if_ the four of you, or two of you, or three of you, or _any_ of you, were to… add to the family tree, we would consider that little one family, as well.”

Slack-jawed, she stared up at Molly’s earnest face, struggling to breathe.

“I’m not- I-” Hermione stammered. “Law school.”

“Oh, I know. Just know, no matter what,” Molly whispered, cupping Hermione’s cheeks. “You’ll never be alone, darling.”

Not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry, Hermione nodded dumbly. Molly kissed her forehead, lingering a moment, and Hermione’s breath shuddered in.

That was one thing she never gotten back with her parents. Affection. She knew them as fellow adults, and their relationship was a warm one. But they were more like beloved older neighbors. They didn’t remember Sunday mornings in bed. Or sick days snuggled up under a blanket.

With a sniff, she realized Molly remembered her as a child more than her own parents, and her throat tightened, suppressing a pitiful whine. Molly’s thumbs wiped under Hermione’s eyes gently and kissed the top of her head before standing.

“Let me know when you want to talk or have questions, alright?” Molly bid.

She nodded, tears pooling against her lower lids. It was a lot to take in, and she was grateful Molly had turned to start cooking something. Judging by the ingredients and pot floating through the air, it would be soup.

 _You’ll never be alone._ Merlin, she realized with quiet despair, she’d been _so_ alone for _so_ long. Her parents and their relearned memories were superficial. Their dinners together felt like rehearsals of long-ago plays. All of her relationships in Perth had been equally one-dimensional.

Maybe that was why it felt like she’d fallen headlong into this arrangement. It was wonderful and terrifying and claustrophobic in the best way, and it was the opposite of what she’d had ever since she’d left. 

Maybe, knowing she wouldn’t end up alone again, she could just… fall.

————————————

_The auburn-haired boy was older than the Weasley child, so it was definitely the dream. The likeness was uncanny, Draco thought as the boy led him down the path._

_The girl with the black curls skipped behind them, scuffs of dust puffing up behind her. Merlin, she was adorable. And happy. The boy was grinning like a little madman, as well. It was contagious, and he felt himself smiling as he let the boy pull him by the hand toward the beach._

_He knew this beach well. It was in a cove next to his home, just outside the wards. It was one of his favorite places to lay and listen to the waves on a sunny day. Oddly, he realized, he could hear the waves, and the wind, and even the gulls overhead._

_But he couldn’t hear the two children. They were talking excitedly to each other, and to him, but their lips moved soundlessly. There was something he needed to do for them to speak. Something he needed to say to them, but it fled from him._

_They’d reached the water, and both kids splashed around barefoot. The boy found a shell, and was using it to dig a hole in the sand. The girl was picking up rocks and collecting them in the skirt of her dress._

_Shockingly cold water lapped at his ankles, and he relaxed, closing his eyes in the sunshine. A tug on his hand brought him back. The boy was pointing at something out on the water. The girl had stopped to watch._

_Two round black shapes were floating toward them on the water, growing as they approached. No, not growing, rising. It should have felt ominous, but both children were excited, and he felt himself walk forward._

_The water was up to his knees when their foreheads broke the surface, and he gasped. Wide, blinking black eyes followed, and they looked at each other, snorting out sea water as they grinned._

_He walked forward, nearly within reach of them. They should be shivering and blue, he thought. But they were pink-cheeked and eager to come to him, little bodies churning against the weight of the water as they walked._

_Crouching down in the icy water, he hissed in a breath as it soaked him up to his chest. They were eye-level with him now, and he waited impatiently._

_A rock thunked into the water to his right, and the child in front of him stuck out its tongue at the auburn-haired boy, who returned the gesture. The other child lifted an arm from the water to wave excitedly to the black-haired girl, who was waving, knees alternating a shimmied dance._

_He reached out both hands, and they each took his fingers, grinning as he pulled them through the water. Each settled on a knee, beaming up at him. His hands splayed on their backs, steading against their slick skin._

_Merlin, they were perfect. Closer up, their hair was actually dark brown, their irises black with fine gray webbing. Wiggling impatiently, they both tried to stand on his thighs, and he scooped them up onto his hips. The warmth of their little bodies against his drenched clothes felt right._

_Dragging himself through the water, he deposited them on the beach. A boy and a girl, he observed. Something about them emerging from the water nude seemed appropriate. Mythical._

_The two girls talked animatedly and examined the rocks in the black-haired girl’s skirt. The auburn-haired boy was showing off the hole he’d dug to the other boy._

_They’d known, he realized with a start. They’d brought him down here to get them. To get their… siblings?_

“Oh…fuck.”

——————————

“I’ve got it. Honest,” Ron insisted, hoping the damn Goblins would stop offering to escort him home. 

Persistent little bastards. One of them, a red-haired wanker, told him he _smelled of ill-begotten trophies_ , which Ron thought was an odd way of telling a bloke he reeked of dead Basilisk, but whatever.

They’d been their usual hostile, sharp-toothed selves until he’d told them he was there to get the Black hearth rug out of the Prewett vault. After that, they’d practically tripped over each other to ingratiate themselves. Name dropping, he huffed. Not just for Pureblood supremacists, apparently.

Wheedling the rolled up rug upright inside the Floo, he threw the powder and declared his destination.

With a lurch, the green flames died down, and the brick of the Burrow fireplace came into focus. Minding his head, Ron stepped out and turned around.

The rolled-up rug was standing upright inside the fireplace, several feet taller than the hearth’s opening.

“Hm,” he hummed to himself, not really sure how the hell he was going to get that out.

“Back up a step, Ron,” came Hermione’s voice, and he turned, startled, but did as he was told.

“ _Reducio_ ,” she said with a flick, shrinking the rug down to half its size.

With an appreciative grunt, Ron retrieved the hip-height roll and laid it on the floor. “ _Engorgio_.”

“Thanks, ‘Mione,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around her shoulders from behind her stool. 

His face nuzzled into her hair, and she looked up at him. He rewarded her with a chaste peck on the forehead and turned to greet Molly.

“Mission accomplished, Mum,” he declared. “I’ll deliver it in a bit, after a shower.”

Dropping his chin back down to her hair, he muttered, “Alone, this time, greedy witch.”

Grinning, she hugged his arms around her before letting him release her shoulders.

———————————

 _”Putain de bordel de merde,”_ he hissed into the pillow for the sixth time. It hadn’t helped the first five times.

All of his other dreams that Magnus insisted were prophetic and reasons he was a Seer and a bunch of other asinine shit, those had all been very forthright. 

Dreams of Durmstrang on fire? Durmstrang burned down.

Dreams of _putain de_ paper cranes and apples. Fucking paper cranes and apples.

Dreams of falling off a cliff and not dying? Fell off a cliff and turned into a damn bird.

Dreams of Azkaban? Fucking Azkaban.

But pulling naked kids out of the sea? That just made him scared to go down to the beach.

Those children were Rusalkas. But why? And how? And what the _fuck_ did it mean?

“Fuuuuuck…” Draco groaned into the hapless pillow. It really didn’t deserve his verbal abuse.

Why would he dream of Rusalka children? Of all damn things. 

Ugh, and they looked like Magnus’s baby pictures, he thought with a groan. Especially the boy. How many times had he sketched that cherubic little face when Magnus wasn’t looking?

Sitting up, he fluffed the pillows behind him and reached to grab the large, flat pearl from its shell. It had become his touchstone lately, he thought, running it across his bottom lip. As always, it was cold to the touch, but warmed quickly. Ridges and pits in the nacre distracted him from his racing thoughts for a moment.

It was the one thing they’d disagreed on. The one big thing. Magnus wasn’t interested in raising children. Not his, not Draco’s, not anyone’s. Something about it being counterintuitive to Rusalkas, which Draco didn’t agree with at all. He’d thought Magnus would have been a good father.

Holding the pearl in his lap, he ran the stub of his thumbnail over it, noting the spots where it caught and diverted along creases in the enamel.

A family, or even a potential family, with Magnus would have been the one thing that could have made him surrender to the ICW. In retrospect, he would have gotten a slap on the wrist and returned to his life. And Magnus.

Instead, he’d gone along with his parents’ plans to evade the Ministry. That had worked out just great. He still didn’t want to know how many people had died in that fucking raid.

“Loyal to a fault,” he muttered, holding the pearl to his lips, like it could keep a secret.

But it hadn’t been much of a secret. His divided loyalty between Magnus and Narcissa had caused the raid. And his loyalty to his parents had landed him where he was now. 

Alone in a mineshaft, still dreaming of Rusalka children Magnus had never wanted.

Maybe that’s what the dream was about? Maybe Magnus had changed his mind? 

Weasley had said he was in the UK. Ballycastle. Maybe he’d come here for a reason? Maybe Draco was that reason?

“ _Fuck_.”

———————

Ron’s shriek of terror echoed down the stairs, and Hermione… giggled.

“You’re a pervert, you know,” Ron spat half-heartedly to the witch lingering in his bedroom doorway.

“And you make the best noises when you’re startled,” she said, shutting the door behind her.

She would forever treasure the memory of him screaming and clutching a shirt to his chest for cover while his bottom half was still on full display.

“I brought you something,” she said, holding out a tastefully simple bouquet. It felt a little like submitting a project for a grade, she thought.

His face lit up as he pulled trousers on. Ferns, borage, and tarragon made an unattractive, leafy wad of plants, but they did smell nice. And he huffed a laugh at the borage. Stubbornness, she had in spades.

“What did your book say tarragon meant, ‘Mione?” Ron asked cautiously, not wanting to over-read another bouquet.

“Something like ‘lasting interest’,” she summarized doubtfully. “Was it wrong again?”

“No, no,” he replied, trying to hide his surprise. “Just double-checking. Bit of a departure from sex calendars and whatnot, is all.”

It was her turn to hide her embarrassment. But why should she be ashamed of wanting him? Of wanting them?

“Ron, I have no idea what I’m doing.” She sighed heavily. “What _we’re_ doing. All four of us. But I know I like it. And I want it to work.” She slumped against the closed door.

He nodded in agreement. He and Harry had come to the same conclusion. Whatever the fuck this was, it was a far sight better than what they’d had. Ron was a little wary of Harry and Malfoy falling out, but maybe that could be avoided. 

“Yeah, we’re on the same page,” he concurred. “Or Harry and I, at least. No idea about Malfoy.”

She straightened a bit in surprise that he and Harry seemed to have actually discussed it. Convenient, even if she didn’t love the idea of being a topic of conversation for them.

“I’m heading to his place here in a bit. Want to tag along?” Ron offered, eager to get out of the bedroom. “I think we’re gonna blow some shit up. But not me. We will not blow me up. Again.”

He took a step toward her and stopped. There was a distinct possibility his hands were going to end up all over the very soft red sweater that clung to her breasts. Living at home with his mum puttering downstairs had significant disadvantages.

She shook her head. Playing with detonators in a cave sounded like a man date if ever she’d heard of one.

“No, I have an essay that needs my attention,” she countered. “And that won’t explode. Probably.”

———————————

There were a lot of fairy tales about golden eggs, Draco mused, inspecting the reflection of his platinum hair in the yellow metal. But they were children’s stories.

For anecdotes about golden eggs like these, Penny Royal or another racy text had to be consulted. He wondered if the Gremlins knew what they’d given him. Probably. Degenerates. 

It should have a grip or a finger hold on it somewhere, though, he thought, nudging a bit of magic into it. It hummed slightly, pleasantly, in response, but the shape didn’t change. Frowning in concentration, he pushed a tendril of a heat spell toward it, and three dents receded into the wide bottom.

“Hm,” he huffed, fitting his thumb and two fingers into the indentations. Good fit. Smiling, he thanked whichever of his ancestors had devoted time, energy, and magic to _this_ , of all things. Probably whichever one had the widest branch of the family tree.

Setting the egg back on the ledge, he watched the imprints fill back in. Interesting. And unassuming.

A knock, an actual _knock_ on the wards made him jump a bit. Unprompted, a signature like crisp, sun-dried sheets hit him. Weasley. A pushy, abnormally magically-proficient Weasley.

———————————

“Fire in the hole!”

Draco ducked behind the sofa, fingers in his ears. Again.

A plume of hot air and dust shot over top the red velvet upholstery, and he shuddered. It felt a little too like dragon breath. 

Ron was good at what he did, Draco had to admit. Really, really good.

Sunlight filtered through the dust from new enchanted glass windows the size of dinner tables on either side of the doorway. Outside, the rubble was drifting and sorting itself into a tidy cottage garden wall on either side of the path.

It was…inviting. A far cry from the foreboding granite face it had been. Ron had blasted out huge sections of the interior, seemingly just for fun, but the space was enormous compared to its former footprint.

It was shocking aptitude from the dumb twit he remembered vomiting slugs and splinching his eyebrow off. But then again, the bloke wasn’t afraid to experiment, so maybe it was bound to pay off.

Draco peeked up over the sofa to find an exquisite granite hearth he could roast a whole fucking pig in… if the thought of it didn’t make him uneasy. A seal, maybe. That fish-stealing bastard would fit in there nicely.

Ron was running some kind of polishing spell over the stone, and it was nothing short of breathtaking. Flecks of quartz glinted light back from black and tan-swirled granite. Like freshly-poured stout, frozen in time and studded with stars.

A sudden burst of electric shocks and broken glass shoved through from the outside ward. Potter. Angry Potter. _Merdasse_.

“Weasley!” Draco waved, trying to get the dust-covered ginger’s attention as he laid out another line of charms strung together by silver wire. The things Ron had pulled out of his bag, Draco had never seen before.

“Weasley! You fire-crotched little fuck-“

Ron turned, removing an earplug and raising an eyebrow, “Yes?”

“Oh. Potter’s outside,” he said, surveying the scattered rubble, charms, wires, and detonators. “Should I… let an Auror in?”

Ron shrugged. “Yeah, let the walking calamity in. This isn’t technically illegal. Yet.”

With a pop, Potter was suddenly inside the doorway, red robes kicking back in landing, eyes blazing and wand drawn. 

Panic rose, hot and tight, in Draco’s chest. Potter stepped toward him, scarlet robes flaring. Draco flinched, fingers digging into the back of the couch.

This was _Auror Potter_. And he was fucking terrifying. Memories rushed through, unbidden. Red robes and fists. Red robes and cuffs. Red robes and sudden darkness.

Invisible static shocks and pinpricks ate across Draco’s skin, as he watched Potter closely for any sudden moves.

Turning, Potter took in the windows, the hearth on the opposite wall, and lowered his wand but raised his left wrist. The bracelet linked to the Ministry ward was a blazing, angry red.

“What the _fuck_ are you two doing?” Potter yelled, mouth set in a hard line.

“Baking a fucking cake, Har,” Ron mocked. “What’s it look like?”

Harry’s face softened and Draco palmed the knife in his pocket, but didn’t draw it.

“Dammit, Ron,” Harry whined, huffing a sigh and pocketing his wand. “I had to leave in the middle of a smuggling investigation for this, and they gave it to Adams.”

Ron shrugged, a contrast to the suspicious squint to his eyes. “Sorry you lost your chance to rescue Kneazles, mate. Beer’s in the cooler there.”

Harry slouched with a pout. An actual pout, Draco mused, blowing out a breath. Maybe Potter wasn’t here to hex him to insanity and throw him down a hole in Azkaban.

“It wasn’t Kneazles,” Harry retorted, digging through Ron’s cooler. “It was Basilisks. And Adams is going to fuck it up. You know how often I get to actually use Parseltongue? Fucking never, Ron.“

Ron scowled, tone careful, meticulously smoothing the silver wire and winding it around a spool. “Why would anyone want to own a Basilisk?”

Harry shrugged, popping the cap off a bottle. “Death wish? I don’t know. Malfoy, why did Salazar Slytherin own one?”

Dragon breath and red robes. Draco’s hand slowly reached into his pocket, but Potter pinned him with a glare.

Draco froze mid-rise on one knee, hand on the sofa back, not meeting Harry’s gaze.

“I- I think-” he stammered, eyes on the floor in front of him, and decidedly not on the Auror in his kitchen.

Harry looked at Draco, who was taking slow, measured breaths and gripping the sofa like it was the last solid thing on earth. What had him so shaken, Harry wondered, taking a cursory sip from the bottle.

Red robes and fire surfaced from Falk’s memories. “Oh,” Harry whispered softly.

With a flick, he Vanished his robes back to his office. “Better?”

Draco looked up carefully and nodded, embarrassed by his own reaction. He hadn’t seen Auror robes in years, but they hadn’t lost their effect.

“I think he was just a bastard,” Malfoy drawled, composure falling into place. He stood, dusting his knees off. 

The robes had thrown him off kilter, yes, but this was the same man who had practically stripped off and given him a tongue bath at Gringotts. Just in robes.

He’d tried to not read into Potter’s behavior at the Goblin Gala, but it was impossible to not think about. And may or may not have led to an increase in afternoon wanking. 

Gods, the man was a hot mess. So resolutely uninterested for so long, but so _painfully_ desperate with his inhibitions down. Bit of an intoxicating combination, he mused.

Ron changed the subject, eager to not accidentally incriminate his Basilisk-dissecting self. “So, why did my demolitions set off your ward?”

Giving the whole room a good look over, Harry whistled low. “Probably because you used enough firepower to level the Ministry. Good month and a half till Guy Fawkes.”

Ron and Malfoy just stared at him. 

“Bonfire Night.”

Ron shrugged and looked to Malfoy, who turned a palm up in bewilderment. Harry frowned at them both.

“Look at it, Har. The whole place is Elvan. Gives me ideas for the Burrow.”

Harry picked at the label on his bottle and frowned. “Elven? Like, house elves?”

“Nah,” Ron said as he sorted wooden coins into two piles. “Elvan. Granite with quartz scattered through it. Wait till you see all the other rooms, especially the ones I polished up. Makes the Ministry headquarters look like it _needs_ to be demolished.”

Malfoy took a breath, intending to ask Ron about Elvan versus Bath stone, but decided Potter probably didn’t want to hear about Malfoy Manor’s construction.

Instead, he walked over to the cooler and tried to ignore Potter’s lips on the slick glass of the bottle rim. The tip of his tongue licked a drop from the rim, and he sucked his bottom lip in as it withdrew. 

Merlin, he did have a nice mouth. And no hesitation in using it. Potter turned and caught him staring, but he held his gaze, lowering the bottle.

“Thank you, by the way.”

“What for?” Draco inquired, already bracing himself.

“For not… For leaving me at the Burrow,” Harry said, low enough to escape Ron’s hearing across the room.

Draco shrugged. There it was. The expected rejection. At least Potter was being kind about it.

“I don’t linger where I’m not wanted, Potter,” he stated blandly, face neutral.

They both watched Ron sort and pack charmed wooden coins and muggle detonators like they were made of spun glass. Spun glass being a vastly safer material.

Harry opened his mouth and closed it again, and Malfoy’s eyebrow rose in interest. “It’s not… I’m…” Harry started with a sigh. “I’m your Auror.”

“Mm hm,” Malfoy hummed, assessing Weasley’s libations. A lone doppelbock caught his eye, and he twisted off the lid. Taking a swig, he muttered into the bottle. “Cupcake.”

Turning from a slowly blushing Potter, he asked, “Weasley, do you have something in your arsenal that could dissolve granite slowly? I think there’s something in my bedroom wall. The one you _didn’t_ already blow up.”

———————————

“Malfoy. Mate. I don’t know what kind of bloody Seer you are, but that is eerie,” Ron murmured, running a hand over the rough quartz hemisphere protruding from the wall.

“I’m not…” Malfoy began, but trailed off, breath leaving in a pursed-lip sigh. 

Medea’s mons, his dream had led him to a fucking crystal ball. Or would be, once it was shined up, which Ron was already doing. “I’m not sure. But leave it in the wall. I don’t think it’s supposed to come out.”

Ron shrugged, tamping down the polishing charms. It looked like a melon-sized swirled marble of clear, white, and light blue crystal. Fucking gorgeous, he thought.

Harry perched on the corner of the bed, at a lack for anywhere else to sit. Or lean nonchalantly. Or just look casually uninterested in Malfoy’s bedroom. Malfoy didn’t yell at him for sitting on it, but he did look at him steadily for a moment.

He wondered what the room had looked like before Ron worked on it today. A floor to ceiling enchanted window looked out to the north, where eagles were diving and soaring in the setting sunlight. Bookcases formed the wall between the bedroom and rest of the home, both sides absolutely packed. 

But Ron had said there were other rooms now. Maybe the dark doorways on either side of the wall Ron was working on hadn’t been there earlier. Why did Malfoy need more rooms?

Harry shrugged. Maybe Malfoy needed storage. For posh Malfoy things. Unlike the neat line of baubles on the ledge above the bed. Twenty-eight things, Harry counted. The seventh item, a piece of cobalt blue sea glass, was nudged forward, out of the line. Four shells with misshapen pearls were in the middle of the line. Odd.

Ron and Malfoy were discussing the intricacies of the quartz, and Harry was bored. Bored, and very, dangerously curious.

Unfortunately, he remembered _everything_ from the Goblin Gala. Every word, every thought, every feeling, scent, taste, _everything_. Including waiting patiently to be taken home to this bed.

He’d been so sure he was going to end the night naked on these sheets, and _Merlin_ , he’d been correct about them. They were so fucking soft. 

The impossibly fluffy duvet was heaped on the far side of the bed, which was probably good. It looked too tempting. And the whole room smelled like Malfoy plus the sweet, woodsy scent of this mattress, like some kind of small, delicate flowers in a mossy forest on a misty morning.

Tentatively, he leaned back onto his elbows, pretending to pay attention to their conversation. They’d moved on to theorizing how much quartz was behind the quartz and Harry couldn't care less. Quarts and quarts of quartz, he thought to himself.

Nobody noticed he’d reclined. Maybe they wouldn’t notice if he laid down. Casually. Like he laid on other men’s beds all the time. His shoulders eased onto the mattress, and he sighed.

Full sprawl accomplished, he was surprised how firm the mattress was. He’d expected to sink down into it, but instead, it only gave enough to cushion the prominences of his hips and shoulders. 

It smelled even better laying down, and Harry wondered if he could get away with rolling over and burying his face in it. Maybe run his lips over it. Press his hips against it while his hands skimmed up-

“Want a pillow, Potter?” Malfoy’s acerbic drawl goaded. Harry sat up to see him glaring, arms crossed. Ron was finishing the crystal ball with some kind of complicated sanding and water spell combination.

“I’m awake,” he half-snorted. “Your mattress smells weird. What is it?”

“Veela feathers,” Malfoy said, with no small amount of contempt. Like everyone had entire, massive mattresses stuffed with incredibly rare materials from sentient beings.

Harry frowned, confused. “I thought Veelas had scaled wings.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Nothing in nature has scales on its actual wings. And I’m not going to argue with Fleur’s assessment.”

Harry looked away, taking in the dimming light outside the window behind him. Fleur had been here? That didn’t add up in any possible way, but Ron didn’t look surprised, busying himself with the crystal.

“Done!” Ron proclaimed, beaming. “Want to take it for a spin?”

“Not even a little,” Malfoy grumbled. “But we won’t know if it works if I don’t.”

Ron plopped heavily on the bed next to Harry, excited to see if his handiwork was functional. It sure was gorgeous. Like a softy glowing planet of clouds and sea, hanging at waist-height from a quartz-flecked glossy wall. Malfoy Manor had nothing on Weasley craftsmanship, he thought.

Malfoy gingerly set his fingertips on the crystal ball and waited, trying to remember Divination lessons that felt like they’d come from another lifetime. They sort of had, he supposed.

Images rushed in quickly, before he was ready. _Owls, so many owls. All descending toward him, talons outstretched. A basket of muffins. Glossy ferns and scorched daffodils._

Gasping, he let go. He’d been prepared to have to wait, and focus, and work to get something out of the ball, not to defend himself against an onslaught.

“Well?” Ron asked, eager.

Harry thought pushing Malfoy to reveal what he’d seen was probably a bad idea. Nothing about his demeanor said he was in a sharing mood.

“Well,” Malfoy drawled. “It works. Let’s go bind the rug. And I’m sure Harry has a lot of important things to go finish up tonight.”

Ron busied himself with what sounded to Malfoy like some inventive new cleaning spells in the other room. Potter leaned back onto his elbows, making no move to get off the bed.

He looked entirely too comfortable, Malfoy thought. Like he had a right to be in this bed. And he could have been. He could have brought Potter home from the Gala, he was all but certain. Gods, he’d looked so fucking eager. And he didn’t look disinterested now, but he knew better. Potter was never actually interested.

“Potter,” he snapped. “In or out. I don’t appreciate men who dither.” He flicked a hand at Potter’s feet still on the floor.

“What?” he asked, flustered. “Oh. Sorry.” 

Predictably, Potter stood and walked to the other room to help Ron. Malfoy watched him walk away, the decades-old game of enticement and rejection a familiar ache. Not unlike his parents’ disapproval, or the predictable scorn of witches and wizards.

Merlin, he missed Magnus right now.

——————————

Peeking around the edge of the bookshelf across the room, Ron watched Malfoy re-approach the crystal ball with visible trepidation. Personally, Ron was pleased as shit that the thing worked. 

Maybe Wheezes would be selling pocket-sized crystal balls this year. On chains, as necklaces. A whole jewelry line? Crystal ball betrothal jewelry would sell itself. He ripped off a corner of blank sketchbook page and found a Muggle ink pen on the counter to jot the idea down.

Harry joined him at the cooler and proceeded to inspect the remaining bottles. Ron stuffed the piece of paper in his pocket and sighed deeply, turning to Harry.

“Har,” he started, keeping track of Malfoy’s location. “Remember what I told you about men hitting on you and you not noticing?”

“Uhm,” Harry sputtered, also turning to make sure Malfoy was still occupied. “Yeah, why?”

“Mate, come on.” Ron obliged. “He just literally invited you into his actual bed.”

Harry twisted the cap off an ale and sneered in disbelief. “He did not. He was worried I’d put my shoes on the mattress.”

“Gods below. I do love you, Harry, but sometimes I think you’re the dumbest person I know.” Ron whispered tersely. “Do you know what ‘dither’ means?”

“To get stuff dirty?” Harry shrugged, doubt setting in.

“It means being indecisive, you fucking bell-end,” he groaned softly, shaking his head. “He told you to make up your mind whether you wanted him or not, and you just…”

“Got up and walked away.” Harry raised his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose, huffing out a long breath. “But it doesn’t matter, Ron. I can’t do anything about it for a year, anyway. I told you what the Ministry policy is.”

“Yeah, you did. Loudly. Full of Goblin party drugs. With many expletives. Naked. In my room. But here’s the thing, Captain Oblivious,” Ron chided. “There’s a lot of gray area there, and don’t you suppose telling him is the better option?”

Harry glowered at Ron, and Ron proceeded to flip him off. He needed to stop being so damned insightful and just let Harry continue to fuck his life up.

“Har, it’s inhumane. To both of you. I’m not saying you need to have a heart to heart about it tonight. Especially not with me here. But sometime soon,” Ron suggested. “Alright?”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry muttered softly, flipping his glasses on top of his head to rub his eyes. That was going to be one hell of a sit-down. 

———————————

“I guess your family’s tea preference makes more sense now, but why are Potter and Granger on here, too?” Draco asked Ron, adding another log to the fading fire.

They sat on the plush rug, reading through the blurry names and exquisitely-detailed hibiscus flowers. Most were red blooms, but Draco’s was white and gray, not unlike his tattoos.

“I guess Mum already added them. Not sure when. Or how. I wish I’d have asked Harry before he left. Probably a long time ago, though.”

“She’s a bit of a child collector,” Draco mused out loud, thumbing the blade of his knife.

“I think she prefers to be called a mother hen,” Ron corrected, nodding.

The thick rug was a mess of curling vines and flowers in various states of opening, hovering over a cream background. The number of buds was nearly overwhelming. Focusing on a single one would cause it to open and display a picture and name of the corresponding wizard.

Draco focused on Ginny’s flower and was rewarded with an image of her sticking her tongue out. A recent image, it seemed. And accurate.

Ron held out the thumb-length knife Molly had given him. He took it for inspection. The blade was decently sharp. The handle was… he suppressed a laugh.

“Why do you have Granger on your hilt?” he asked, eyes crinkling in amusement.

“What are you talking about?” Ron retorted, thoroughly confused.

“I have called her a terrier multiple times recently,” Draco replied, grinning. She’d been absolutely tenacious in learning Legilimency the last time she’d spent the night. They’d spent the entire morning in bed slowly swapping inane memories.

Having a good student almost made up for her preceding angry explosion. He grinned, remembering her Legilimency skittering into him, feeling like feathers tickling behind his eye. An odd sensation, but a very subtle one. She’d do very well with it if she wanted to spy on people. And she absolutely would. Human minds were the ultimate Restricted Section.

“It’s a Crup. And my Patronus is a terrier, so don’t make fun.” Ron snorted, taking the knife back from Malfoy. It was more than a little cute that Malfoy had a pet name for Hermione, Ron thought. A rather appropriate one.

“Granger is your Patronus. Got it. Not funny at all.” He grinned and didn't bother to hide it, because it was damned ironic. “Alright. So, a touch of blood on your name, then burn your knife clean, and that should be it.”

Draco went first, unhesitatingly nicking between fingers, wiping the blade on his name, then holding it into the flames. His flower slowly shifted to red, and an image of him as a toddler surfaced. Anachronistic, he thought, looking at the undeniably adorable blond tyke.

Ron grit his teeth like he was amputating a finger and made a shallow scrape between his fingers, grimacing as though Death was dragging him bodily through a field of shrapnel.

“You can’t make up for blood with drama, Weasley,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “Spread the skin a bit tighter and do it again.”

Ron did as told, wiping the knife on the rug, then burning it clean. Nothing happened to his part of the rug, but flowers shifted, green tendrils crept out to form a new layer of the vine.

Instead of lining up as siblings, Ron’s branch turned into a flower bunch of Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Malfoy. Four tendrils crept out from the center of their cluster, waiting, it seemed.

“Malfoy…” Ron intoned, pitch and anxiety rising. “What happens if a Seer bleeds on a hearth rug?”

“Weasley…” Malfoy mimicked, tone pitching upward. “Are you pregnant? With quadruplets? A litter _would_ be very Weasley of you.”

Ron ran a hand down his lower belly. “No, that’s mostly beer,” Ron considered thoughtfully. “You don’t think Hermione’s pregnant, do you?”

Malfoy barked a laugh. “She is most assuredly _not_ pregnant. Ugh.”

Ron eyed him suspiciously, cleaning the soot off his blade. It did look eerily like his Patronus. “And you’re so sure, because…”

“Because she started her period in that chair,” he said, flicking his blackened knife at the table and chairs. “After shoving me around and accusing me of trying to knock her up.”

“Wow. That’s… unacceptable,” Ron said, disappointed. “I’d hoped she’d grown out of some of that.”

Malfoy shrugged, “I’m not terribly concerned about it happening again. But if it does, I have fantastic wards.”

“Speaking of which, you gonna teach me how to use this fancy knife?” Ron asked, trying to flip the silver knife between his fingers, fumbling it horribly, and nicking his thumb.

“First lesson. Don’t fucking do that again, Weasley,” Malfoy chuckled.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Hips and Shoulders

Hips and shoulders,  
“Please?”, and “Oh-”  
These? Ammo. 

I behold her.  
Write this prose.  
Count her throes.

Strike and smolder.  
“More” he crows.  
Never slows.

Hips and shoulders,  
Merlin knows.

DLM 2007 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	20. Hufflepoof Heartbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember that Witch Weekly photoshoot? Yeah... articles full of lies paired with misleading captions and sexy pictures. Hermione masturbates about it.
> 
> Draco is not happy, confronts ex. Harry shows up and fucks things up, because of course he does.
> 
> Draco is sad at home, talks to Ron. Harry shows up and fucks things up, because of course he does.
> 
> Harry nuts up and asks Draco out. Kind of. Sort of fucks that up, too.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Parasites or Progeny

This lineage has rotted, the last limb given way.  
But, still besotted, its roots kept death at bay.

And if these roots, aid shoots break free,  
Does this plant not cant toward being its own tree?

DLM Truro 2007  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

The trick, Draco mused, to flipping bottle caps, was to start with it on his thumbnail, convex side down. The other way, and it would just fling itself off to the side.

The other trick was to spend as long as possible flipping them, so he could forget why he was all dressed up and holding a Portkey. It had been a while, and he figured it was about time to put on a show. The Malfoy Heir Song and Dance.

With one last flip, he caught the bottle cap with a shove of magic, and lurched into the Azkaban lobby. As usual, there was no line for visitors. Nor should there be, he thought. 

The Floo taunted him. When he was done, he didn’t _have_ to take it back to Truro. It would let him go anywhere. He _could_ Floo in to Ballycastle and see Magnus. It would mean a horrifically long flight home, but it might be worth it. Especially if Magnus had relocated for more than Quidditch.

The attendant, a disheveled lanky middle-aged man, scanned him and waved him through with a wink. He frowned and hoped that wink was for his ass, not his Mark.

A familiar corona of orange curls bobbed down the hallway toward him, pushing a mostly-empty canvas post cart. Her round freckled face lit up as she neared him.

“Hi, Rhoda,” he said with a curt wave. She was one of the most unflappably kind humans he’d ever encountered. How or why she worked in the most hostile environment imaginable would always irk him.

“Skinny malinky long legs!” she belted, thick Scottish brogue still exactly how he remembered it. “Hou ar ye?”

He shrugged. “Surprisingly well,” he admitted.

“Ah, well, yer mum’s up to high doh. Dinnae for good or poor.” 

Fantastic, he thought to himself. An agitated Narcissa first thing in the morning. They met, side by side, next to one of the few windows in the corridor. The weak sunlight lit Rhoda’s hair like a furious halo.

“Thank you for warning me. Want me to take their post?” he offered, figuring he could maybe save her a trip and potential confrontation.

“Nah, done then. Best ye go,” she instructed, pushing her cart into action.

“Alright,” he mumbled. “Thanks again.”

“Don haste ye back,” she called over her shoulder, and he wondered if maybe he could get away with visiting less often.

———————

“Post’s here!” Jacina yelled down the hall. A low, appreciative whistle sounded, followed by the murmur of several women and a man.

“I know, right?” said one of the younger cashiers.

“Did you think he was?” Jacinda asked.

“I mean, I always hoped,” the man mumbled.

Ron finished picking the Nundu spines off his shirt with a grumble. He had to admit, spelling the enormous fireplace to suck the air through the room and out the roof had been a stroke of genius. Turned out Nundus could exhale one last time during dissection.

An emergency exhaust Floo and a Bubblehead charm had saved the day. Stacking the little pile of spurs, he wondered if he was in over his head. Or if maybe he’d eventually deal with every possible creature and be unflappable. 

“Mr. Weasley?” Jacinda asked, voice abnormally mellow as she knocked softly against his open door.

“Yeah, Jace?” he asked, sweeping the pile into the bin. “What’s the commotion about?”

“Oh, nothing important. I just wondered if you wanted this.” She held up a magazine with a very scantily-clad Harry in an embrace with an even more scantily-clad Magnus Falk. “You know, since you’re friends.”

“Huh,” Ron huffed. “Yeah, hand it over. I didn’t know it was out already. Oh, and let me know if you notice anything weird with the temperature in the store. I’m airing out the downstairs storage.”

“Sure. Ok,” she stammered, “bye.”

Harry’s face gazed longingly up at Falk from the glossy pages. Multiple glossy pages. The captions inferred rather a lot, as well. “Oh, gods below, Harry.”

Harry wouldn’t go after a man Malfoy still carried an obvious torch for, would he? But had it been obvious to Harry? The way Malfoy talked about Falk in the car that morning made it obvious to _him_. But then Harry was fairly obtuse.

Surely the bloke who’d cried on his shoulder about fancying men would mention it if he’d gone and bagged one in short order. Especially this one.

Nah, Harry wasn’t dating Magnus Falk. Harry couldn’t keep a secret for shit. Like a bucket full of holes.

But Malfoy didn’t know any of that. “Ah, bollocks,” Ron hissed, checking his schedule for the day. Luckily, very little that couldn’t be dealt with tomorrow.

“Jace! I’m headed out!” he hollered, not really sure if she was even within earshot.

He was going to go slap an Auror with a magazine.

————————

“Famous Harry Potter! Or should I say _Infamous_?” Adams leered. The fucking wanker.

People had been popping in his office door to say weird things all morning. Congratulating him on nothing in particular. Telling him he had great taste, even though he was wearing his usual work clothes.

A soft knock on his door drew his attention away from his paperwork yet again, and he huffed in annoyance. “Yes?”

It was… Amy? Ashley? Ann? Didn’t matter.

“Oh. Hi, Harry,” she stammered, like she was surprised to see him at his own desk. “I just wanted to stop by and say congrats, and he seems nice.”

“Uhm… thanks?” he mumbled, no idea what the fuck she was talking about. Was this about Malfoy somehow? Were rumors going around about the Goblin Gala? Nah, Malfoy was many things, but he wasn’t _nice_.

She just stood there, looking at him, so he picked his quill back up and signed off on some equipment releases. He’d been getting far more and higher-security tasks since Robards had left.

“Could you sign my copy?” she blurted. “I mean, not if it’s weird. It is weird. I made it weird. I’m sorry.” She turned to leave, cheeks a hot flush.

“It’s fine. I’ve been sitting here signing things all morning. Bring it over, whatever it is.” 

“Really?!” She beamed at him. “My sister is going to be so jealous!” That was exceptionally odd, he thought as she walked over. What on earth kind of sister would be jealous of a signed requisition-

“Oh, Circe’s sweet snatch,” he hissed as she handed him a glossy cover photo of himself in full animated glory, looking up at Falk like he was an oasis in a desert. “Can I get this back to you? This is- I need to Firecall someone. Now.”

“Oh,” she squeaked. “Uhm, sure. I’ll just… wait for you to leave it on my desk? Yeah. Okay. Uhm. Bye.”

Harry waited a moment for her to turn down the hall before racing to Robards’ vacant office, headed straight for the private Floo. “Connie Urban, Witch Weekly,” he yelled, hoping she even had an office, let alone one with a Floo. Green flames shot up, and he stuck his head in.

“Hi, Haaarrrrry,” Basilia drawled, spinning around in an office chair.

“Oh, fuck you, you sharp-toothed bitch. Where’s Connie?” Harry spat, surprised by his own vitriol.

Basilia smirked and wrinkled her nose in feigned disappointment. “Connie got snatched up by the Prophet last week to write for their politics section. Boooooring.”

“So _you_ wrote that fucking trash? And followed me around with a camera?” He accused.

“Sure did, Har,” she said smugly. “Want to come on through and give me a private interview to clear all this up?”

“Not remotely, _Baz_ ,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Clearing up rumors about Aurors really sounds like something a qualified political correspondent should handle. Not a smut peddler at a trumped-up softcore porn rag.”

“You’re no fun, Harry,” she pouted, uncrossing and recrossing her legs slowly.

“And you give terrible blowjobs,” he said with a shrug. “Literally the worst. Bye.”

Harry pulled his head out the Floo, a little surprised it had let him make a call. It was supposed to be keyed to the Head Auror. Dubious.

————————

They were waiting for him in the visitation room this time. That was unusual. And there was only one guard today.

They’d chosen to sit on opposite sides of the table, each in the chair closest the door. He lingered in the doorway, having to choose a seat next to one of them that also blocked him into the room. It felt like a trap, but so did everything about Azkaban. And them.

Narcissa was grinning wickedly, and Lucius looked like he’d already had the piss whipped out of him, so he opted to sit next to the bedraggled blond man. “Son,” Lucius grunted, oddly casual.

“Lucius,” Draco replied, earning him a slight frown. They knew better by now than to expect him to call them by affectionate or familial titles.

“You look well, darling,” Narcissa oozed. “New beau?”

His jaw clenched at the syrupy tone and casual affection. The nectar before the poison.

“Uhm. Sort of.” He shrugged. Granger was new. Luna wasn’t. But she’d specified a male lover, and that was unfortunately inaccurate. For now, at least. But if he did take the Floo to Ballycastle today, maybe-

“Pity about your Rasulka bastard,” she said with an overly-sympathetic tongue click. “But I guess I can’t blame him.” 

She spoke too quickly, words coming out with mechanical precision, fired to wound. Lucius scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

His breath caught. Something happened to Magnus? And no one told him? But how could they?

“Narcissa, don’t,” Lucius cautioned. Draco looked at him, worry brewing. Whatever she was hinting at, it was obvious they’d already been fighting about it for quite a while.

“Probably a nice change to have such a fine upstanding citizen bending over for him, hm?” she said placidly, like she was discussing his Quidditch team's statistics.

“What?” Draco whispered, gut sinking. How would they know anything about Magnus’s love life? They probably knew he was in Ballycastle. That would be all over the sports section of papers.

“Cissy, please,” Lucius whispered, leaning into his elbows on the table.

“No, love, he should know. My son can do much better than a humanoid mutt,” she spat with a snarl.

He frowned, but wasn’t surprised. She’d called Magnus worse. Often to his face. Magnus had kept a list of her insults. In alphabetical order. Draco smiled softly as he remembered having to translate the French insults for the list.

The thick slap of glossy paper on the table startled him, and it took a moment to comprehend that what he was seeing wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Or a leftover visage from a wet dream.

Potter’s face turned adoringly up to Magnus. Magnus’s tattooed arm, _his_ tattoo, trailed languidly up Potter’s back. His breath came fast, and he knew his eyes were wide.

**“Power Couple Rising to the Top: The Future Head Auror and His Sexy Quidditch Star Lay it ALL out!”**

He read the headline four times, trying to make sense of it. This couldn’t be real, he thought, clammy hands sticking to the slick pages. This was just some kind of sick trick of Narcissa’s.

Magnus had always known about his attraction to Potter. And Potter had seemed surprised to learn about his history with Magnus. 

Had Magnus kept him a secret from Potter? How long had they been together? And why hadn’t Potter said anything? How could they just… this? His mind reeled, struggling for words under crushing waves of possession and betrayal.

“So glad you didn’t reconnect with him, dear. I always expected to find you floating in a river face-down,” she chirped, examining the ends of her hair.

“Cissy…” Lucius warned, already having given up on this fight.

The inside of the magazine didn’t contradict the cover. Magnus and Potter casually touching on a park bench. Eating chips in Muggle London. Normal date things he’d never get to do.

“And besides, I’ve already lost one child to drowning,” Narcissa aimed at Lucius. “ _Didn’t I?_ ”

“Yes.” Lucius whispered and hung his head.

**Long-time Quidditch fan and soon-to-be Head Auror Potter seems to have finally met a wizard who can keep up with him.**

The room was wavering, and he was only vaguely aware of the escalating fight around him.

“I should never have married you,” she spat, leaning forward.

“And I shouldn’t have married a pregnant blood traitor whore,” he said flippantly.

Tears pooled against his lower lids and his throat constricted. They looked happy together, he thought, stifling a sob. Smiling at each other for the photo shoot, sharing a greasy plate of chips. Maybe they were happy together. They deserved to be happy.

“And I shouldn’t have married a murderer!”

“Gods damn you, Narcissa. That child was an abomination.”

“Me?! I’m not the bloody murderer here.”

Yeah, he thought with a sniff, they deserved to be happy. Away from him. Away from this. Nobody could be happy with him. Only Magnus had ever tried, and that had ended in fire and blood. 

Potter was smart to keep Draco at arm’s length, too. He could do better than a Death Eater. And he had, apparently. Magnus would be good for Harry. They were better for each other than he ever could have been.

“Dromeda buried her half-breed, too. It just took her longer.”

Magic crackled from Narcissa’s fingers as she howled and her hair lifted in a wild static wind. “ _My Liore…_ ” she wailed, rising from her chair. 

It burned, though, he thought, that they would end up building the kind of life together that he could only dream of. The kind that he’d only ever tasted. But at least they’d be happy.

A black silhouette drifted down through the ceiling, and Draco felt a short pull from it as the door to the visitation room swung open, and he stepped through.

He made his way to the Floo station. “Ballycastle Bats Stadium.”

One-hundred and sixty-seventh visit, not that he was counting.

—————————————

Harry sat at his desk waiting. For what, he wasn’t entirely sure. For someone to tell him what to do? For some kind of emergency? For Falk to breeze in and agree that this was total shit and he definitely didn’t look that desperate in person?

That would be nice, he mused. Because in every one of these pictures, he looked like he was ready to climb Falk’s body like a fucking tree. Maybe he’d have entertained the notion if Falk hadn’t almost married Malfoy, and then gone on to actually marry someone else. There was no mention of his husband in the entire issue, though.

A balding red head and sour face popped into his doorway with a quick knock.

“Hey, Percy,” he said, steadying his breathing. Being around Weasleys sounded like an excellent distraction.

“Hey, yourself.” Percy snorted. “Bet you’ve been entirely too popular today.”

“Yeah, it’s been nonstop.” Harry nodded, grateful at least someone didn’t see this as a positive outcome.

“Well, I’ve got something so boring, you may not even need to leave your chair,” Percy offered tantalizingly. “Malfoy’s Trace said he took the Azkaban Floo to the Ballycastle Stadium. Not against his probation terms or anything, but unusual. He usually only goes to Gringotts or the public Floo in Truro.”

“Fuuuuuck,” Harry groaned. “Thanks Pers. I’ll look into it.” This wasn’t good. He didn’t go to Ballycastle for fish and chips. 

Percy set a paper transcript of Malfoy’s Floo records on his desk. Harry’s eyes scanned the column of dates and destinations with a frown. The man went to Azkaban far too often. At least once a week.

“No problem, Har,” Percy said, entirely too chipper as he left.

Harry examined the paper. Way too often. That couldn’t be good for him. His parents were some of the worst specimens of humanity that had ever been collected.

He scraped his forearm on the desk, trying to scratch an itch under the bracelet, but it actually made it worse. Much worse. And spread.

Yanking up the sleeve of his robe, the bracelet was glowing a blinding blue-white. His skin burned under the intensity.

 _”Shit shit shit,”_ he chanted again, racing back down the hall to Robards’ Floo.

“Ballycastle Bats Stadium!”

—————————————

Hermione scraped a thumbnail against the scorch marks on her neighbor’s postbox. She checked around, and pulled out her wand. “Scourgify!” she hissed, and the brassy metal grated under the spell. She smiled, pleased with her remediation.

A faint dust seeped out from under the door, and she wiped it up with a finger, rubbing it against her thumb. It felt like paper pulp.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered. She’d Scourgified her neighbor’s mail into dust.

Slamming her flat door behind her, she silently hoped she never ran into her next-door neighbor, though that was unlikely. She hadn’t seen or heard a peep from them yet, though.

Crookshanks watched her expectantly as she sorted the post, like he thought treats came in paper envelopes . 

Law student association newsletter, bills, and… Potter porn. 

Holy History of Histrionic Hogwarts.

**“Power Couple Rising to the Top: The Future Head Auror and His Sexy Quidditch Star Lay it ALL out!”**

Harry gazed up at the taller man like he was waiting to be devoured, and her core quivered expectantly. Gods below, of all the things she didn’t know she wanted to witness in her lifetime, this was now first and foremost.

Logic briefly interrupted her perusing of the pictures inside, which didn’t disappoint.

Harry had been promoted to Head Auror? And he hadn’t thought to mention it? And Harry liked men? And had a serious boyfriend? And hadn’t mentioned _that_ , either? And where had she seen this man before? The man with Malfoy’s tattoo.

She gasped, eyes wide in surprise. He was inside several of Malfoy’s memories he’d shared while teaching her Legilimancy. His affection had been blatant, even when the memories he’d shared were banal.

That must have been an awkward conversation between Harry, Falk, and Malfoy.

How had Harry kept this under wraps for so long? What the fuck else was he hiding? Not much, in those little pants, she mused, turning the magazine sideways. 

“Oh,” she whispered in surprise, as she opened a centerfold of Magnus Falk wearing nothing but a… Snitch.

It was going to be a dildo _and_ vibrator kind of afternoon. Scathing text messages could wait.

—————————————

Players on brooms whooped and looped around the stadium, shrugging off the damp mist and sunless sky. It was an old coliseum, and Draco wondered if the moss between the cracked stones held them together or split them apart. Beautiful, though. Like a castle built as a homage to sport.

The pitted stone steps were slick under his feet as he walked down through the bleachers to the field. He was out of place here. The stadium felt like a future that could have been, and maybe that was true. Or perhaps none of this was ever meant for him. Cheerful colors zipping around. Spectators waving flags, despite the fact that it was only a practice.

A peaceful existence didn’t make sense for someone like him. Azkaban made sense. Violence and power and control made sense. Affection? Love? Trust? Naïve bootstrap daydreams from nursery stories. 

Only people born into that kind of legacy got a life like this. A life where you could love who you wanted to and have them love you back. Even print it on the front of a fucking magazine.

 _ **MAG?**_ , he asked the empty air, hoping forceful Legilimency wasn’t a parole violation, but no longer dreading a cold lonely cell if it were. It would be a relief, maybe, to go back to Azkaban. Existing here in the wider world had proven exhausting.

An elderly couple huddled under a plaid blanket rubbed their eyes, and he resolved to not throw out such a strong broadcast call again.

Through the mist, he saw a tall figure step out onto the field and turn to face the bleachers near him. _ÄISLKING?_

Relief and anxiety twisted through him in alternative waves as Magnus started toward the stairs at a run. _YOU SAW THE PICTURES?_ he sent as he jogged up the stairs toward where Draco had frozen, standing awkwardly.

_**Narcissa delighted in showing me.** _

_NIGHTMARE BITCH QUEEN REIGNS SUPREME._ A weak smile graced Draco’s face at his years-ago nickname for her. Draco sniffled and wiped his face, hoping the drizzle would hide some of the moisture gathering in his eyes, but knowing it would do nothing for the redness.

He stopped two steps below Draco. Just out of reach but at eye-level. 

Gods, he was as heartbreakingly beautiful as he’d always been. The mist collected on the tips of his eyelashes, reflecting gray sunlight in stark contrast to his black irises. The muscles in his jaw worked quietly, gum always present. A fine coating of droplets dusted his dark hair, begging to be wiped off.

He’d _owned_ this man once, mind and body. He’d handed his fucking soul over to Magnus, only to have Narcissa repossess it.

He pressed shirt cuffs to his eyes, trying to stop the welling tears. A soft sob slipped from his lips in their place.

But now Magnus was Potter’s. Potter got to know him that way. And Magnus got to have Potter in return. And that would be fine. It would be good for both of them, and they would be happy, and someday, he could be happy for them.

They deserved that, he thought, glad the mist softened the hot lines running down his cheeks. That kind of life was for people like them.

People like him didn’t have happy endings. Quiet endings, if they were lucky, but not happy ones. Happy endings were for people who were raised in that world. Like Ron. Weasleys got fairy tales. Malfoys were cautionary tales.

Magnus held out a hand, and he knew what would happen if he took it. A Legilimantic barrage of catching up. Years of memories crammed into a brain-searing few minutes.

He shook his head, letting Magnus’s hand hover. “I don’t want to see you together, Mag,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I can’t.”

“They lied, _äislking_.” His pitching, rolling accent rumbled down Draco's spine. Gods, he’d missed that voice. “Your Auror and I crossed paths, and the rest is fiction.”

“Oh…” Draco whispered, not really believing him. That article had been very detailed.

“I sent him with a message for you,” Magnus stated.

“You what?” Draco asked, molten anger flowing in where heartbreak was cooling. “He never mentioned you. Ever. In fact, I’ve been under the distinct impression that he’d never met you.”

Magnus’s jaw froze mid-chew. “I wondered if he was too conflicted to be trustworthy.”

Draco hummed in agreement, resentment ebbing in on the tide as grief washed out. 

How terribly like Potter, he thought, the icebreaker ship of a man. Chugging along along; jagged, glistening shards always in his wake. 

“You read him well. What was the message?”

“He was supposed to tell you to come see me. And that I’m married,” he replied, turning back to look down onto the field. “And not to _Potter_ , obviously.”

The sudden news took Draco by surprise, his breath snorting out in a soft huff. But he was more curious than upset. Curious, furious at Potter, and, oddly, a little relieved. 

If Magnus were available, he wasn’t sure where that would put them. What does one do with a violently interrupted betrothal like theirs? Even De Pompadour had no guidelines for the proper etiquette.

Draco extended a hand, and Falk took it with a soft smile. Images flew at him hard and fast, and he ate them down as quickly as he could.

_Falk coaching. More coaching. Lots of coaching. So much Quidditch._

_**If I want to catch up on Quidditch, I’ll read the papers, Mag.** _

_RIGHT. BRACE YOURSELF._ His grip on Draco’s hand shifted, as he stepped up closer, until they were gripping each other’s elbows.

_Durmstrang burning. Children screaming. Auror robes. Children dying. Their cottage on fire._

Draco opened his eyes and wiped tears off on each shoulder, not breaking Magnus’s grip. He looked down at their arms where Magnus’s tattoo was in full golden and ruby splendor. 

It wasn’t really warm enough for bare arms, but he hadn’t seen his own arm light up in years. All that work for beauty he couldn’t behold. How terribly metaphorical, he thought, as he rolled his sleeve up.

He cupped Magnus’s elbows and settled in, wishing they had somewhere dry to sit down.

_**Keep going, Mag.** _

_A nondescript balding man in wire-rimmed glasses. The man supervising the replanting of the forest around Durmstrang. The man shaking his head in front of the now-overgrown ruins of their cottage. The man patting Magnus on the back._

_The man in formal robes, holding rings. The man’s hands working at a softly-lit workbench, and a sudden, uncharacteristic surge of sentimentality from Magnus. The man backs up to show Magnus an elaborately-carving of a river valley on a broom handle. Magnus stoops to kiss him._

_The man in bed, already asleep._

_**Your husband?**_ , Draco asked, putting up shields to hide his reaction. Their marriage was nothing like his relationship with Magnus. It was so placid, and, if he were to be honest, rather boring. They seemed like an old… married… couple. Hm.

_MARKUS. HE’S A LIGNUMANCER._

_**You know I don’t speak Swedish,**_ Draco said sarcastically.

_HE SPECIALIZES IN TREES AND MAGICAL WOOD._

_**Does he, now?**_ Draco said lecherously.

_NO, NOT LIKE THAT. NOT REMOTELY. HE’S AT YOUR HOGWARTS TO DO SOMETHING WITH A WILLOW. HE’LL BE HERE TOMORROW, IF YOU’D LIKE TO MEET HIM. HE’S ONLY HOME A FEW NIGHTS A MONTH._

Shocked, Draco’s walls briefly fell. How could Magnus be satisfied with a dowdy husband he only saw a few times a month? It made no fucking sense. Magnus was an absolute deity in the bedroom, and he was married to… _this_?

_RUDE, ÄISLKING. THE SEX WAS IMPORTANT TO YOU, SO IT WAS IMPORTANT TO ME. IT IS LESS SO WITH MARKUS._

Draco took a shuddering breath and fought the self-conscious panic in his chest. It had never been important to him? In retrospect, though, how many times had Magnus actually initiated sex? Rarely, now that he thought about it. But more often than once a month. That seemed untenable. 

_**Is it…. I assume you don’t divide your… loyalties?** _

_NO, AND YOU TOLD ME MANY TIMES YOU PERHAPS OVEREXTEND YOURS. A HUFFLEPOOF TRAIT, YOU SAID._

_**Yes. Hufflepoof. Well, thank you for humoring me. Several times a day. For years. I guess**_ , he thought wryly. 

_MY PLEASURE. YOUR TURN._

Draco let go and wiped the collected mist from his face with his sleeves. A pop of Apparition echoed around the stadium faintly, and he ignored it.

How much did he want to show Magnus? It was all so fucking depressing.

“Alright, you asked for it, but I don’t want your pity, Mag,” he said, gripping his elbows again, and watching their arms light up. Gods, he’d forgotten how vivid a green his vines were.

He ordered his relevant memories, not eager to share his solitude in the face of Magnus’ content marriage.

A second, slightly louder pop of Apparition echoed, and he ignored it.

—————————————

That there was a Head Auror private box at the Stadium was a surprise, Harry thought. And the fact that Robards’ Floo had seen fit to deposit him in it was another surprise.

And it was hilariously comfortable. Battered recliners, watermarks on all the tables, posters of scantily clad women on the walls. A discarded pipe and empty tobacco tin sat on a table next to playing cards.

An absolute boar’s nest if he’d ever seen one. Not a bad professional perk, he thought, throwing his robes over a hideous plaid sofa. Especially if the other teams provided similar accommodations.

Lacking a great way to find Malfoy in the immense structure, he swung the bracelet around, hoping it would lead him like some kind of beacon. Sure enough, it glowed more brightly when he pointed it toward the far edge of the field.

With a pop, he landed on the other side and used the bracelet to hone in on Malfoy again.

Another landing later, and he could see them through the drizzle. Or, more accurately, he could see their glowing tattoos illuminating the mist around them.

They weren’t moving, but the bracelet burned with mad fury.

They looked to be… hugging? In a weird, formal way, hands cupping each other’s elbows, but Malfoy’s forehead rested on Falk’s chest. Falk had leaned down to put his face in Malfoy’s hair.

With a grimace, he realized he’d entirely forgotten to deliver Falk’s message, and Malfoy probably came here thinking Falk was single. Maybe Falk hadn’t seen fit to inform him?

He cleared his throat nervously, chastising himself for being anxious. He was an Auror. Possibly the Head Auror, even though he’d taken his robes off. And they were, between them, a convicted felon and an unconvicted, unrepentant murderer. He shouldn’t feel nervous around them.

Then again, one of them had swatted three humans out of existence like fucking gnats, and the other… was Malfoy. Whatever that amounted to.

“I thought I smelled an Auror,” Malfoy drawled, looking reluctant to move as he raised his head. Blood flowed from both nostrils, and he licked it from his lips. Pink-tinged tears ran down the edges of his nose.

He looked… done, Harry thought. Just done and with nothing to lose. It was more than a little terrifying, and Harry patted his pocket to triple-check he’d remembered his wand.

Falk’s head rolled, still on Malfoy’s hair, pinning Harry with a cool, analytical gaze. The headline about a power couple had gotten it wrong. _This_ was a power couple.

Harry wondered if he should have brought more Aurors. But for what? He tried to remind himself why he was here as he took his glasses off and dried them on his rapidly dampening sweatshirt. Streaky instead of wet. Not much of an improvement.

“Your Trace went nuts, and the DMT told me you came here, so I came to-“

“To what, Potter?” Malfoy snarled. “Do some meddling? Haven’t you done enough fucking meddling?”

“I just wanted to make sure you-“

“Weren’t doing anything interesting you could involve yourself in, right?” Malfoy spat, letting go of Falk’s arms. Harry was disappointed to see the color on his arms fade, especially when it was replaced with a furious glint in his grey eyes.

Malfoy cleaned his face wandlesssly, and Harry’s bracelet lit up. He wasn’t supposed to be using magic outside his wards. He knew that. Why would he risk it for something so minor?

“How _did_ you manage to entertain yourself when you didn’t have me to haunt, Potter?” he fumed, stalking forward. His hand raised to cast a drying spell over himself, and Harry’s bracelet hummed in warning.

“Did you find another man to lead around by the cock and pretend you weren’t interested? Did you skulk around someone else’s home waiting for a misstep so you could feel superior?”

“ _Äislking…_ ” Falk warned, as he turned his attention. Harry’s eyes burned, and he shot Falk a watery glare. An image of his Wizengamot invitation flashed in his mind unbidden, and he blinked rapidly.

“No, Mag, I’m fucking sick of this. Everywhere I go? Potter. Everything I do? Potter. Everyone I _fuck_ , he’s somehow involved now. Why the bloody hell is _that_ , Potter?” Malfoy’s wrist flicked, and the mist ran in rivulets down an unseen barrier around him. 

Heat built under his bracelet, and Harry rubbed it against his hip. His mouth opened and closed, no idea how to respond. He didn’t intentionally follow Malfoy around. Did he? It just seemed to keep happening. He didn’t ask to be assigned to his case. He didn’t ask Hermione to seek him out. He didn’t ask for any of this, so _fuck_ Malfoy for suggesting he did.

“You know what, _Harry_. I’m done. I’m just done,” Malfoy snarled, words like glass shards. “Tell them to reassign my case, and I’ll take my chances with one of the Aurors who wants me dead. You can tell Granger to take me off her roster.” 

Malfoy sauntered back to Falk with liquid precision, winding an arm around the taller man’s waist. “And good fucking luck getting what you want in _this_ arena,” he sneered, punctuating the statement by sliding his hand up Falk’s chest.

Abruptly, he stepped back and disappeared with a concussive crack that echoed off the surrounding stone. Harry stared at the empty air in front of Falk.

His bracelet glared an angry red and scrolled _”Apparition”_ , followed by the notification from the Ministry ward, _”Draco Lucius Malfoy”_. Harry sighed in relief. At least Malfoy had gone home. He was going to have to find out how to deal with the fact that he’d just illegally Apparated, though. And cast several spells.

“Uhm. Falk?” Harry muttered, shocked. 

“Yes?” Falk replied succinctly.

“What the fuck just happened?” Harry asked, trying to keep the pleading out of his voice.

Falk chewed his gum slowly. “He’s upset.”

“Fucking brilliant analysis,” Harry chided sourly. “Would you care to tell me why?”

“No,” Falk stated, “it’s not my place. But you can get in touch with me if need be about the logistics of it all.” He paused, turning to descend back to the field. “ _When_ need be.”

“Unhelpful,” Harry mumbled to himself, watching Falk leave. Unhelpful and rather fetching in a soaked t-shirt, Harry thought, as he made his way back to the Head Auror Floo.

————————

Harry wasn’t in his office, which Ron figured wasn’t unusual. For as much as he whined about doing paperwork, he knew Aurors were out on cases as much or more than they sat at their desks.

Ron found it rather disconcerting that he’d been able to get into the Ministry Headquarters, the DMLE, the Auror Department, and now potentially the Head Auror’s office by just being a Weasley. 

Multiple people had asked if he was on his way to see his brother or his father. A woman in the lift asked if his mum had sent him with lunch for his dad, like he was some kind of domestic shut-in of a son.

A copy of Witch Weekly sat on top of Harry’s desk, and he frowned. There was an ominous scorched line on the cover and office smelt faintly of burnt paper.

He flopped into Harry’s chair and tried to spin it. Apparently, the DMLE didn’t believe in good office chairs, so he gave up and wandered out. If he couldn’t find Harry, he supposed notifying Malfoy before someone else did was the next best thing to do. Stuffing the rolled up magazine in his pocket, he left Harry a note.

_Har,_

_Came to find you about this Witch Weekly cock-up. Figured you were out doing important shit. Saving Kneazles and whatnot. Heading to Malfoy’s under the assumption you’re not a man-poaching shit-weasel of a man. Let me know if I’m wrong._

_-R_

Ron flipped through the article again on the way down in the lift. The photos inside weren’t suggestive of a relationship to anyone who knew Harry well. But how many people knew him well enough to see when he was profoundly uncomfortable versus “trembling with nervous anticipation”?

That cover photo, though. That was a doozie, Ron thought. Probably had a lot to do with the tattoos and little to do with the man wearing them, though.

He tucked the magazine in his armpit and grabbed a handful of Floo powder, wondering what it would take to get Malfoy’s fireplace registered. Or if he was allowed to do that. Percy would know.

“Truro Public,” he said, and held on to the magazine while green flames hurtled him through the network. With an off-kilter spin, the Truro public Floo dumped him out unceremoniously in a narrow alley that reeked of piss.

Yeah, he thought. Malfoy was going to need to register that gorgeous beast of a fireplace he’d blasted out of the granite. No reason to muck about with inferior equipment when his brother was the one in charge of it.

With a pop, he Apparated the miles to the road in front of Malfoy’s wards and placed a studiously polite knock on them. His mum would approve of his manners, he thought.

The sun was high, but a wall of clouds looked to be coming down from the north. He hoped he could Apparate the whole distance back to the Burrow and not have to hop in the rain.

The ward pressure eased, admitting him and he started the walk to the door. It was always a nice enough little stroll, and the footpath had gotten noticeably more tame. Probably due to the increase in traffic over the last month or so, he figured.

Malfoy sat on the edge of the new garden wall in front of the stone outcrop, top of his hand pressed to his mouth. His Blood Magic blade was in his other hand, and he looked fucking furious. 

Malfoy glared at him over his hand, licking the wound one last time before drawing it away for inspection. “Are you here to tell me to be nice to Potter?” he asked snidely.

“Uh… no?” Ron ventured. “I haven’t seen or heard from him today. Little surprised to find you not curled up with a bottle of Firewhiskey.”

Malfoy sighed and melted into an exhausted slump. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and Ron thought he looked wrung out. Far more than some itchy witch-bait article should warrant.

“For what it’s worth,” Ron started, wondering if he should have brought a bottle, “I don’t think Harry would go around hitting on men he knew you-“

“Do you think I’d be a good father, Ron?” Malfoy blurted out.

Ron plopped down on the end of the garden wall across the path opposite him.

“I… didn’t think it was an option for you.” Ron said, eager to find a reason, any reason, to dodge the question, because he really wasn’t sure how to answer it.

“I have these dreams, right?” Malfoy clipped nervously. Ron nodded.

“Sure. You can use a crystal ball, too. Seer shit, yeah.”

Malfoy’s knee bobbed nervously, a stark contrast to the fatigue written across his face, and Ron very much wished he could Apparate him to the Burrow and feed him.

“Right. And the dreams, they’re only ever about important things. Important things that end up coming true,” Malfoy said in a rush.

“Like what?” Ron asked, hoping to get some background before Malfoy circled back around to the whole fatherhood issue.

“Everything important.” Malfoy said flippantly, with a flick of his wrist. “The war, Voldemort, the Durmstrang raid, jumping off a cliff to evade Aurors, Azkaban.”

“Wait, a cliff?”

“Yeah. Didn’t know my Animagus spell worked till I was mid-air over the Sea of Okhotsk. Anyway, dreams. So, I started having dreams about eaglets. No big deal. I was hiding with eagles. Made sense. But then they started turning into humans.” Malfoy took a deep breath and shut his eyes. “And now they’re humans every time, and they have faces and I think they might have names, and two of them are fucking real and Firewhiskey sounds like an amazing and terrible idea.”

Ron stared at him, wondering if he shouldn’t Apparate him to St. Mungo’s instead of the Burrow.

“You dreamt about kids. And kids exist,” Ron summarized poorly. “I’m missing a lot of pieces of how you’re involved here.”

Malfoy checked his hand, satisfied it wasn’t bleeding anymore. “Did Granger tell you about the Legilimency?”

“I… yeah,” he admitted, kicking himself for breaking her trust. “But don’t tell her I blabbed about her blabbing.”

“I won’t. It’s faster if I just show you the dreams,” Malfoy said passively.

“Alright, but how about we go inside. Maybe get you something to eat?” Ron suggested. “I’m not gonna lie, mate. You look like shit.”

Malfoy huffed a bitter laugh and stood. “Yeah, alright.”

He looked unsteady, so Ron looped an arm around his waist. The poor git’s whole body was shaking, and Ron berated himself for not noticing early. He was having an absolute breakdown in front of him, but hid it too well.

“For the record, Draco, yes,” Ron said firmly. “I do think you’d be a decent dad.”

“Thanks.”

——————————

Draco waited, chewing his lip, as Ron’s blue eyes flicked back and forth. It was awkward watching someone review his unconscious mind’s thoughts. He’d gotten used to filling Pensieve vials in front of Robards, but it had taken a few weeks for the uneasiness to fade.

Even weirder to watch a man he wasn’t involved with lay in his bed watching the dreams he’d had in this bed next to the woman they both shared. A rather tangled web, he thought.

His earlier comment to Potter about not even being able to get laid without Potter’s involvement came back to him, and he winced.

He could have said most of those same things about Ron, and he didn’t hold any animosity toward him at all. Quite the opposite, really. Ron had been an unwitting accomplice to Potter’s juvenile stalking. Ron was involved in the Granger scenario. And hell, Ron, with the other Weasleys, had infiltrated his life on a level par with the Ministry at this point.

But Potter’s meddling was different. It was always frustrating, and uncertain, and poorly-reasoned. 

Harry Fucking Potter and the deceptive body language. Harry Fucking Potter and the nothing and everything glances. Harry Fucking Potter and the unabated, desperate, seductive rejection.

Ron’s breath hitched, and Draco wondered if he’d gotten to the part with the auburn-haired boy. If anything made Ron run away screaming, it would be the boy that looked like his nephew.

What would Ron think when he got to the girl who looked like Potter? That ought to give him pause. Or maybe he wouldn’t see the resemblance. That wasn’t a bridge they needed to cross, anyway.

Draco rubbed sweaty palms on his trousers and fought the shallow panting breaths that kept surfacing. His elbows rested on his knees, legs crossed on the bed. Ron’s breath huffed out in a soft laugh, probably when the redhead threw a rock at the Rusalka boy and they stuck their tongues out at each other.

He dabbed the corners of his eyes with his cuffs, preparing himself for Ron surfacing any second. Beads of moisture decorated the corners of Ron’s eyelids as well, he noticed. Maybe a positive sign.

Gods, why was he so nervous? He didn’t need Ron’s approval. He could certainly do with his support, but his life had never and would never hinge on the opinion of Ronald Weasley.

“Mmmyeah,” Ron drawled, opening his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, what?” Draco asked tentatively, studiously not wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers yet again.

“Yeah,” Ron reiterated, “I think you’d be a good dad. But what _are_ those two kids in the water. Twins, right? But not like… totally human, are they?”

Draco sighed, relieved that Ron wasn’t immediately appalled. “Half-Rusalka, like Magnus. His niece and nephew, actually.”

“Oh,” Ron groaned in understanding. “So these are all kids you’ve already met, then?”

Lips pursed, Draco shook his head. “No. I can show you what Magnus showed me, but in summary, no. Magnus’s sister is pregnant with the twins now. And the other two haven’t even been conceived.”

He gave into the urge to mercilessly scrub his palms on his trousers. 

“So” Ron drawled, frowning with the beginnings of frustration. “You dream about other people’s kids? Like a Naming Seer?”

Collapsing his head into his hands, Draco sighed deeply. “They want me to adopt the twins. And I’m pretty sure the other two kids are you and Harry’s get with Granger.”

Ron bit a fingernail, thinking. The silence tied Draco’s guts in anxious knots.

“Why the adoption?” Ron asked, visibly working through the information.

“I did want kids. In the beginning. Or maybe I always did, but it didn’t matter. Magnus didn’t. Doesn't. There’s a really good chance they’ll be Legilimens like him. Rusalkas aren’t supposed to be able to conceive, but his mother and sister both have,” he murmured into his hands. “Both with wizards. His sister said the father died. I didn’t ask how. I don’t want to know.”

Ron hummed in acknowledgement, nodding noncommittally. “That’s- That’s a whole lot right there. Other two kids aside. That’s just… blimey. A lot, mate.”

“Yeah,” Draco sighed, starting to relax. Ron was taking this surprisingly well. Maybe Molly’s mother hen tendencies were contagious.

“So,” Ron started, patting the mattress next to him. “How are you going to _get_ them here?”

Awkwardly, Draco settled in next to him, head on a pillow. “I have no idea.”

“Hm. Promise you won’t tell Harry?” Ron asked, sliding down next to Draco, who felt like this was turning into a sleepover.

He shrugged, figuring there was little about Ron that Harry probably didn’t already know. 

“I’ve got an unregistered international Floo in the basement of Wheezes.”

“Huh,” Draco huffed. “We had one in the basement of the Manor. You realize that makes you a smuggler.”

“That ain’t the half of it, but yeah, I know.” Ron said with a laugh. “Smuggling children would be new, but it would work.”

“What the fuck am I going to do with _babies_ , though?” Draco groaned, rising up on his elbow.

Ron patted his own shoulder in invitation. Uneasy, Draco stared at him, trying to get a read on what he meant by the gesture. Ron shrugged, not offended by the skepticism.

The nonchalance made Draco trust the offer a bit more. Maybe that was a normal thing brothers did? Fuck if he knew, but he saw the appeal.

Ron’s shoulder was solid under his cheek, and an embarrassingly deep sigh escaped Draco’s chest. “From what I can tell, the only thing you do with babies is talk to them and make sure they don’t die,” Ron muttered. “They don’t get fun till they can talk back.”

“That sounds deceptively simple, Weasley,” he mumbled, trying to keep his eyes open. Ron’s heartbeat was entirely too comforting.

“Well, what happens if you _don’t_ adopt them?” Ron asked, coming at it from a different angle. “What do they do with half-Rusalka babies in Eastern Europe?”

“Oh, drown them, mostly,” Draco mumbled against Ron’s shirt, eyes closed.

“They _what_?!” Ron barked, startling the almost-dozing Draco.

He hummed in agreement. “It’s kind of their thing. The drowning. But Mag might be able to get them to an orphanage or something.”

“Godric’s gargantuan gonads, Draco!” Ron belted. “The options are you, an orphanage, or immediate death, and you have misgivings about this?!”

“Mm hm.” Draco’s hand settled on Ron’s other shoulder, and stifled a satisfied moan as he felt the other man reach up to idly stroke his forearm.

“They’re already on the hearth rug, aren’t they?” Ron asked gently, looking down at the blond hair splayed out on his shirt.

“Mm hm.” Gods, Draco thought, he could get used to platonic male snuggling.

“Sounds like a done deal, then,” Ron said with finality. “A couple new Weasleys.”

Draco groaned and buried his face in Ron’s armpit. Like it could be that easy.

“What about the other kids? And Granger? And Potter? And the whole sordid mess?” He rambled. Everything could go wrong. Just, simply everything.

“Well, Harry’s obviously got a soft spot for half-blood orphans. Hermione and those other kids? If she’s in, she’s in. If she’s not, she’s not,” Ron said with a shrug. “You’ve got an entire Burrow at your disposal.”

Ron’s hand stopped stroking Draco’s arm to scratch his beard. “When are they due?”

“Spring? I sort of panicked and yelled at Potter and bolted.”

“Oh, well,” Ron said casually, “that’s plenty of time. I think I know where Mum put the twins’ cribs. I’ll ask her tonight.”

“Huh. Okay.”

“Which room’s the nursery, then?”

—————————

Hermione clicked the vibrator off and gave her clit a few last cursory rubs with the stilled silicon toy. Her core tightened around the length of the other toy inside her as she moved, slowly drawing it out. Her body quivered as the head of it withdrew to her entrance, but relinquished its grasp.

With a sigh, she flicked the blankets up and settled in for a nap. Her eyes drifted shut, but a sudden short vibration shook her nightstand. Her phone, apparently, alerting her to missed texts.

She rolled over and read the messages from Harry.

_Not sure if you get Witch Weekly, but the whole article is bollocks._  
_Except the one caption about men.  
That’s true.  
But not Falk.  
He’s actually married._

_Training tonight.  
See you tomorrow.  
There’s a new Thai restaurant near my flat, if that sounds good._

“Huh,” she huffed to herself, relieved she’d decided to scratch her itch rather than confront him. 

Pad Thai and sex with Harry and Ron sounded like a fucking amazing birthday, she thought as she drifted off. 

—————————

The sun had set, and no team of Aurors had arrived to yank him off his sofa and throw him back in Azkaban. Maybe they were waiting for him to leave his wards first, he thought, settling his glasses on his nose.

Flannel pajama pants on the red velvet of the sofa were never the best combination for getting comfortable, and he half-wished he’d have put a shirt on. The fire crackling to life in the fireplace would warm the room up soon, though.

He was still pleased he’d pulled off a five-hundred mile Apparition after not having done it in nearly a decade. But escape was his speciality, he mused, picking up a book from the table. Not the most dignified area of expertise, but if he’d had much pride left, he probably wouldn’t have spent the afternoon curled up crying on Weasley.

Ron had left hours ago, and he wished he’d have thought to ask him to owl Granger. She would have been a welcome distraction tonight. Being alone with his thoughts was extraordinarily unappealing. And despite the stress of it all, he couldn’t stop looking at those damned Witch Weekly pictures. It was like a smorgasbord of his own fantasies. 

A tray of candles glowed softly on the table and he settled into the sofa with a book he was pretending to read. His eyes moved across the print, but Magnus’s memories obscured the words; their cottage caught in a blaze, roof caving in as the front door belched smoke.

He shut the book and pressed thumbs to his eyes, but instead of darkness, images of students, _his_ students, children he’d held and Healed, filled his vision. Little bodies in uniforms fleeing into the forest. Crumpled heaps in robes on the Quidditch field.

With a sigh, he gave up on reading and shuffled to the kitchen to make tea. His hands moved by memory, but his mind drifted to the twins. The twins, and the other two children in his dreams.

His fucking dreams. He’d almost, _almost_ convinced himself that the dreams of children were just something his mind did at night to keep itself occupied. Just a distraction to keep the nightmares of flames and red robes at bay.

A signature shoved itself through his wards abruptly, and he wondered if it was wearing Auror robes. _Potter._ He’d had more than enough of Harry Potter and memories of fucking Aurors. 

He considered ignoring him, but Potter knew he was here. There was little privacy inside a Ministry ward. Best send him off quickly, he thought with a sigh, and granted him passage.

A pop echoed through his front door, and he sat up, startled. The bold bastard Apparated straight into his new front garden from the road. Pushy.

At least the blood ward over the threshold had made him pause. Maybe he wasn’t a total moron. Setting the kettle and mug on the table, Draco reached out to feel what Potter was doing to the new ward. He was a little impressed that he’d noticed it at all.

If Potter crossed it, it would be something akin to a light Crucio with a touch of Dementor’s Kiss thrown in. Truly unpleasant. Just like Potter, harbinger of pain and misery.

A soft thunk hit the door. Then a harder one. Draco turned toward the door, briefly considering throwing on a shirt to go with the pajama pants, but the house was plenty warm.

A sharp crack reverberated through the kitchen, and he winced. Harry Fucking Potter was throwing rocks at his new windows. Unacceptable, he decided, hand on the knob.

He wiped the ward out with a foot as he opened the door. “Potter, don’t break my fucking windows!” he hollered.

Potter was clad in a sweat-stained t-shirt and jogging shorts, breath fogging lightly in the night air. Probably just come from Auror training, Draco thought, trying to ignore Potter’s nipples against the clinging material. He wasn’t wearing glasses, and his eyes were entirely too green in the last rays of the setting sun.

“Oh, shit, Malfoy, I never fucked Falk, not even a little. Seriously. You gotta believe me.” His cheeks were scarlet and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. Quietly, Draco resented him for showing up in distress. He’d come home to sort his own head out, not Potter’s.

“Yeah, I know. I’m not… I’m not mad at you, Potter.” Draco said, hoping his fatigue came across as patience. “He showed me everything. And the message he asked you to deliver wasn’t that important.”

“So you’re not mad at him for being married?” Harry said incredulously. 

“Gods, no. I love him.” Draco scoffed, a bit appalled Harry thought he’d wish ill on Magnus. “Why would I want him to have been alone this whole time?”

“Oh. Right,” he muttered sheepishly. “Wait. You still love him?”

Malfoy shrugged, not at all interested in explaining the evolution of human affection to Potter. “Be a dear and summon Granger for me, would you? Tell her I have an exceptionally long, hard tome and I’d like her assistance.”

“Uhm, okay,” Harry said, fumbling his mobile out of his pocket. “So, why the torture ward if you’re not mad at me?”

“I just don’t want to deal with you after your… personal revelation,” Draco admitted, trying to make it as little about Potter as possible.

“My wha-,” Harry blurted. “Oh, right. Why would that make you avoid me?”

Frowning, Harry tried to decide what aspect of this had made Malfoy angry if it wasn’t Falk. Should he have told Malfoy in person first? Was it some kind of social faux pas to tell the world in print? 

Malfoy sighed and leaned against the doorjamb. “Because I knew you’d show up here a smoldering disaster. And not only do I not want to talk _you_ through _your_ feelings about _my_ romantic history, I don’t want to do it while you…” Draco searched for the words and failed. “Potter about like you do.”

“ _Potter about?_ ” Harry smirked, sliding his mobile back in his pocket. “How does one Potter about?”

Malfoy chewed a lip and folded his glasses. He went to hang them on his shirt collar, only to be reminded he wasn’t wearing one. A chill skimmed up his arms, and he wished he’d put one on, but damned if he was going to invite Potter in while he dressed.

“In order to Potter about,” he began, hoping he could explain without offending, “one must repeatedly and casually throw themselves in front of trains with full trust that the train will stop.”

“I’m… not following,” Harry replied, thoroughly confused. Was this about him taking dangerous cases? Or his role in the war? Was Malfoy worried the article was too public?

“This train’s brakes are shot, Potter,” Draco drawled, settling for tucking his glasses on the waistband of his pants. 

Harry’s attention followed the long, slender fingers to Malfoy’s hip and slowly took in his chest before rising back to his face. His blond brows were knit in a deep scowl, and Harry looked away.

“There it is. Right the fuck there, Potter. I’m standing here, telling you I don’t want to see you, and you’re eye-fucking me like a witch in heat.”

“Oh…” Harry whispered, uncomfortable understanding squeezing his throat. “Sorry.”

Malfoy sighed a soft groan, exasperated. “Don’t fucking _apologize_ for it. Either own it or _stop_.”

Harry crossed his arms and wished he’d brought a jacket. Ron’s lectures about not knowing when men were hitting on him came roaring back, and he thought this _might_ be one of them. Or Malfoy was just mad at him.

“I’ll… Uhm, I'll try to stop,” Harry said, not sure what Malfoy meant by _“own it”_.

“No, you know what, Potter?” Malfoy spat, mimicking his stance, arms crossed. “Look all you want. I’m done opening the door every time you _accidentally_ knock, then closing it for you when you decide you don’t want to come in. You’re like an indecisive Crup.”

“I’m your Auror. I can’t…” Harry whispered, the excuse feeling worn out.

“Oh, just _stop_. Shall I quote the Ministry’s guidelines back to you?” Malfoy offered sarcastically. “It was humorous at the time, signing that particular code of conduct agreement with Robards.”

Harry’s brow knit in confusion, but Malfoy continued. “It was a running joke, actually. I used to threaten to grab his ass and cost him his job. Good fun.” He took a long breath and glared down at Harry. “But _you_ , Potter. _You_ either can’t decide _what_ you want or are too much of a coward to admit it.”

An echoing crack of Apparition sounded from the edge of the wards, and Malfoy straightened, watching the darkening path expectantly. 

“So, I’m done. It has been _exhausting_. If you’re satisfied I’m not angry with you, I have things to do,” Draco said curtly, hoping Potter would take the hint. “Witches to see.”

He stepped back and reached for the doorknob. A second crack, and Hermione was suddenly next to Harry, glowing with exertion. “Hi, Harry,” she chirped, giving him an unreciprocated squeeze. “Going in, then?” 

She looked up to Malfoy, who still blocked the doorway and watched him with a faint frown as she blinked rapidly. Hermione waited for him to walk with her, and his breath hitched, considering the possibilities. Harry’s eyes felt cold, and he slid fingers up to rub them.

If they were careful, he thought, they could share Hermione like he had with Ron. His cock twitched as he imagined Malfoy fucking her, then inviting him for a turn. Sliding his length into her while she was wet with Malfoy’s-

“No. Potter was just leaving.” He took a step back and waved her in. “He has far more important things to do than help us… read.”

Malfoy watched her with open affection, and Harry swallowed past a lump in his throat, fantasy summarily dashed against the rocks. Hermione squeezed past Malfoy, trailing a hand appreciatively across his chest on the way. 

“Right,” she snorted, leaning out the door. “I’ll pop into yours tomorrow around seven, Har. Unless you and Ron want to meet somewhere else.”

“Oh, right,” Harry muttered as she disappeared behind the door frame. “Birthday girl can pick the takeaway,”

Malfoy’s gaze turned back to him, warm grey eyes churning back to a flinty glare. “Prove me wrong.”

“What?” Harry stammered, shaking his head in lack of understanding.

“I said you were leaving,” Malfoy stated plainly. “Prove me wrong.” He shrugged and stepped to the side, giving Harry space to enter the house.

“I can’t…” He shut his eyes in embarrassment at his continued weak argument.

“I know, Potter. Merlin Almighty, do I know.” Malfoy bit off sarcastically. “You always have exceptionally good reasons to leave yourself standing out in the cold.”

The words cut, and Harry looked down at the path. He rubbed a hand down his face and resettled his fingers in his armpits in an attempt to warm them.

Malfoy turned to look in the house, and Harry took a deep breath, grateful for the reprieve. “Granger! Tea is for _ladies_!” Malfoy hollered with a wicked grin. “Whores report straight to the bed!”

Hermione shouted something back in playful challenge, and Malfoy shot her a mockingly stern glare. Was this what he was like when Harry wasn’t around? Happy?

Malfoy stifled a laugh behind tight lips and turned back to Harry. All humor drained from his face, and Harry’s gut sank. 

“Let’s see. Potter’s many reasons he simply _can’t_ ,” he oozed, voice suddenly bitter again. “You simply _couldn’t_ be attracted to men, except you are. Or Slytherins, except that I’ve heard rumors about that. But definitely not Death Eaters or criminals. Merlin forfend. I imagine you probably have a considerable distaste for blondes, as well.”

Malfoy crossed his arms, mimicking Harry’s posture. “So, just… drop it. For both our sakes, just stop. It doesn’t matter why. I’m done.”

“August 17th, 2008,” Harry said softly, gathering his hands in front of his mouth to exhale into them.

“It was a shock, I’ll admit. The article,” Malfoy continued, ignoring him in favor of watching Hermione cross the living room, “but the longer I’ve had to think about it? You with other men? The more reasonable it is. Hell, I’ll make you an annotated list and send it with Granger. A Who's Who of Wizard Cock. Diagon Dick Dissertation.”

“August 17th, 2008,” Harry repeated, thumbing the leather bracelet. Merlin, this wasn’t going at all the way he thought it would.

“What about it?” He asked, pushing away from the doorframe.

“It’s… It’s the last day of your parole.” Harry started, trying to brush off the knot in his gut. “Five o’clock, August 17th, 2008.”

Malfoy’s brows rose with sarcasm. “Bully for me.”

“I mean, a lot can happen in eleven months and three days,” he said haltingly, “but at 5:00 on August 17th… Dinner?” Harry dared to look up, wringing his numb hands.

Malfoy scoffed and the door clicked shut.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Tete-a-Tete

Our tete-a-tete,  
let’s not forget,  
you choose a night you weren’t well-met.

Perhaps by dawn, less to dwell on,  
An ally you’d have come upon.  
Or another man less woebegone.

Next time, perhaps,  
Anguish better under wraps,  
I’ll respond better to your taps.

DLM 2007 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	21. Minou-Minou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut.  
> Hermione is introduced to Draco's prostate.  
> Draco is introduced to Hermione's interest in bisexual men.  
> Ron is introduced to Muggle jail.  
> Harry is introduced to a hot male secretary and gay sex parties at work.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Best Pussy on Two Legs

Why bother at a desk,  
when you’re divine on your back?

Why spend your life in memos,  
when you’re rabid in the sack?

One hand strokes while one holds texts,  
my swotty nymphomaniac.

DLM 2007 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

Hermione rolled over, trying to get comfortable in the immense bed. It wasn’t a soft mattress, but it had never bothered her before. In fact, it wasn’t the bed itself, but the sheets that were irritating. They’d been soft last night, but felt like burlap now. As did her pillow. Even her hair felt scratchy as she ran her fingers along her temple into the mass of curls.

Grey eyes briefly studied her, groggy in the late morning sunlight. She fidgeted against the friction of the comforter she usually loved. Giving up, she kicked it off. A chill shook through her, and she yanked it back up. A shiver rattled up her spine and made her teeth chatter.

“I don’t feel well,” she whispered to the almost-dozing man next to her. She rolled to her side to see if he was even awake. His arm slid over to rest his hand on her hip, lightly skimming it up her waist to her rib cage.

“Mm,” he hummed, one eye open. “I think you feel divine.”

“I mean, I think I have a fever,” she huffed, wincing but leaning into his touch. Her skin was painfully sensitive, and she wanted both more and less of his touch.

“Mm hmm,” he hummed again, slowly opening both eyes. “Don’t call it ‘witch in heat’ for nothing.”

She frowned, remembering Molly asking her if Muggle women ran fevers related to sexual activity. It would have been smart to ask questions when she’d had the opportunity, but it had all been so supremely awkward at the time.

“So…” she led. “What do we do about it?”

He rolled onto his back and yawned lazily. An arm whipped the covers off, exposing his slowly-hardening length. “Heeeere, kitty, kitty, kitty…”

—————————

“Potter, we’ve got a wizard in Muggle police custody in Devon. What do you want to do about it?” Adams asked, chucking a stapled packet of papers on his desk unceremoniously.

Harry scoffed, looking up from the Head Auror application that had appeared earlier without warning. Had it materialized because he’d used Robards’ Floo yesterday? Or because he’d been taking over some of the more banal administrative duties since the man had left?

He’d turned around to hang up his robes, turned back, and there it was. Personal references already filled in by the Minister and Arthur Weasley. The vote of confidence from Arthur was bolstering, but perhaps misplaced.

“I don’t know, Adams,” Harry snapped, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not in charge of assigning cases.”

“Yeah, I guess. But like, we’ve just been divvying them up kind of randomly, and this one is important.” Adams bit his lip and looked down, cocky facade cracking slightly. “And most of us don’t know a Muggle prison from a Muggle dungeon, if you catch my drift.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. “I _do_ catch your drift,” he said, leaning forward. Far be it from him to question where Adams spent his off-duty time. “Yeah, Adams, I’ll go ahead and take it. I know Devon pretty well, too.” Harry hopped up and stuffed his robes into a messenger bag. 

With any luck, Ron would be home and he could stop by the Burrow for lunch. Ron would laugh his arse off at this idiot wizard who got nabbed by Muggle patrol.

—————————

“How long does it usually last?” she asked, already considering the very real possibility that she wasn’t going to retain any of this newfound knowledge.

His fingers slicked his come from her entrance up to her clit. She sighed, spreading her thighs open.

“In the literature, four to twelve hours,” he replied, fingertips circling the sensitive nub carefully. “In my experience, six to eight with sex, twelve to sixteen without.”

She hummed in distracted agreement, paying far more attention to his hand than his words.

“Why…” she trailed off as the slick fingertips crept downward again and her hips rose in invitation.

He shrugged, the movement muted by his position on one elbow. “It’s not exclusive to witches. Or even humans. More pronounced, maybe. Or more irregular?” His fingers froze as he frowned, trying to recall what he’d read over a decade ago.

She huffed a tiny frustrated breath at his stillness. “Research assignment,” she said pointedly. “I’m going to need a full write-up on this, because it is absolutely…”

Her lips parted in soft surprise as his fingers sank into her up to the last knuckle. 

“Absolutely what, Granger?” He asked innocently, palm grinding against her mound.

“I…” she stuttered. “I… _fuck_.”

A soft whine trickled through her nostrils as her jaw clenched in an attempt to maintain her dignity. She would _not_ beg him to fuck her. Not a third time. This morning.

—————————

“Oh, Godric’s gallstones,” he muttered, standing outside the Plymouth precinct building.

The walk from the public Floo to the station had taken up a fair chunk of his morning already. He hadn’t actually read the report beyond the location until he arrived.

_Status: Urgent. High risk of Statute of Secrecy violation.  
Clearance: Head Auror or combined DMLE team  
Description: Ronald Bilious Weasley, arrested by Muggle law enforcement for operation of a motor vehicle without proper registration or license. Currently held at Devon-Cornwall Precinct building in Plymouth.  
Recommendation: Immediate evacuation of wizard along with appropriate remediation per Head Auror or DMLE team discretion._

“Fucking fuck fuck fuck,” Harry muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He needed to be going over Malfoy’s records for the Wizengamot Committee meeting in a couple weeks, not dealing with this dumb-fuckery. Especially not from Ron, and not for something this idiotic. He had absolutely no patience for this caliber of bullshit today.

With a deep sigh, he squared his shoulders and walked through the automatic doors. A too-chipper woman at the desk greeted him.

“Hi, yeah,” he stammered, not feeling at all like an Auror. “My friend’s in jail, and I guess I’m here to take him home? Ron Weasley.”

She left to either retrieve paperwork or Ron, Harry wasn’t sure which. He really hoped he wasn’t going to have to Obliviate a bunch of people today. It was never without consequences.

He took the time to look around the building, a touch jealous that Muggle law enforcement didn’t have to share a structure with every other Muggle governing agency. The Aurors should spend less time with bureaucrats and more time with the public, he thought.

If the DMLE had satellite offices, he wouldn’t have to be here. A local Auror could take care of this. An Auror who lived here wouldn’t need to Obliviate anyone. He’d just be the guy around town with the moronic ginger friend.

Yeah, he thought, nodding to himself. A local Auror who already knew some of the Muggle officers. Local Aurors who were as or more loyal to their cities than to the Ministry would be the perfect way to keep the DMLE in check. 

Maybe offices wouldn’t even be needed. Just a sign out front of their houses. Merlin, that would be brilliant. Healers worked out of their homes and only sent people to St. Mungo’s when needed. Why couldn’t the Aurors treat the Ministry rather the same?

It made sense, he thought, watching the woman return with a file folder as a guard led a very grumpy Ron through a side door.

“Right then,” she said, shuffling through the folder contents too quickly for Harry to truly understand and follow. “Court date here, paperwork to apply for proper identification here, vehicle impound information on this sheet, and a schedule of fines and fees on this yellow one.”

“That’s it, then?” Harry asked, having expected to at least argue or lie, if not pull out the Auror’s Last Gasp; Obliviate and Apparate.

“Yes, but be sure to read it thoroughly,” she warned, tapping the file on the counter and handing it over.

He accepted the file with a curt nod as Ron sidled up to him, head hung. “Right,” he said tersely. “Thank you.”

He turned to examine Ron, who avoided his gaze entirely. His hair was disheveled on top where it was long enough to fall haphazardly. Other than that, he didn’t look worse for the wear.

“Home or lunch first, mate?” Harry clipped, hoping he could avoid going back to the office till his temper subsided.

“Lunch, I guess,” Ron mumbled. “Don’t want to face Mum any sooner than I have to.”

Harry huffed a bitter laugh. “I’ll bet.”

————————

“I didn’t come for a book club, Draco,” she chided, wrapping her hand around the base of his cock.

“If a book club could make any witch come, it would be you,” he accused weakly.

His breath hissed in as she started stroking. The woman was insatiable, and it was glorious. She’d been rather amorous last month, but that was nothing compared to _this_. 

Gods above, below and in the margins. Exhausting, though.

Her fingers squeezed a tight line along his shaft, milking the last few drops of the previous orgasm out. One finger tip swiped up the droplet and disappeared between her legs as she sighed.

“What was that? Five?” he asked, moderately impressed with himself. She shrugged, attention never leaving his cock. He winced as her hand ran over the over-sensitive head, and she dropped her hand to cup his sac.

“Looking after witches in heat is generally a collaborative effort, you know,” he warned, starting to genuinely worry how much longer he could keep up with her.

“Well,” she sighed, fingers idly exploring between his thighs, “I do need to leave at a decent time.”

“In a rather indecent disposition,” he added, wondering how low her fingertips were going to wander. 

“Well, yes. I doubt I’ll be playing Exploding Snap with Ron and Harry tonight,” she retorted.

Her fingers continued idly grazing southward. He wasn’t sure if she had a goal in mind with those migrating fingers, but it certainly gave him ideas.

“ _Ablunguo_.” Draco whispered with a subtle smirk. If she wanted to explore, far be it from him to hinder her efforts.

“Uhm,” she mumbled, her fingers suddenly slick against the skin between his sac and ass. “What was that?”

“Anal prep spell,” he responded, letting his knees fall open. “Do as you see fit.”

She licked her lips, drawing the bottom one under her teeth. Her brown eyes practically glowed at the offer. “I’ve never, uhm,” she stammered, “done that.”

He yawned and folded his arms behind his head, content to take a bit of a break before she took her hormonal frustration out on his cock again.

“It’s not much different than fingering your own ass, Granger,” Draco drawled presumptively, eyes drifting closed. “Mine’s more fun, though.”

He felt her knees settle between his feet as her fingers changed position, and he tilted his hips up. Her fingers froze, and he cracked an eye to look at her.

“Go on, then, _ma chatte_ ,” he grinned lazily and wiggled his hips.

Her eyebrows knit in thought. “That’s not a compliment,” she stated.

He hummed low in disagreement and looked like he was on the edge of sleep. “My _favorite_ pussy, though,” he murmured, and quickly bit his lip, hoping she wouldn’t ask further questions about that.

He threw a forearm over his eyes, figuring she didn’t want him staring at her while she got her bearings. Her middle finger circled the puckered skin of his entrance and pressed lightly, earning her a light gasp from him. 

With a nudge, she slid it in, slowly working in and out of the tight ring of muscle until it was seated inside him. “You’ll tell me if it hurts, right?” she asked, sounding unsure of what to do next.

“Mm hm,” he hummed, sliding into a soft moan as she crooked her finger up against his prostate. “Quick learner…”

And she was, he mused, fighting to keep his body still enough for her to explore. Her finger rather adeptly found all the little places that made him react. A stark contrast to Luna’s toys. Blunt instruments versus agile tools, he thought.

He hadn’t had anyone pay decent attention to his arse since… Magnus? A bit pitiful. Especially with the newfound knowledge that he’d likely done it out of duty more than actual interest. That was a wound that wouldn’t heal quickly.

Her finger slid out and re-approached his entrance with a second one, slicking it along his crack. They pressed against him, waiting for permission as he relaxed his muscles and accepted her welcome intrusion.

Merlin, she really was a quick learner, he thought as she spread and flexed her fingers inside him. Her fingertips found ways to nudge and press that made his breath hitch.

A deep moan poured out of him as she drove her fingers in deep, the rest of her fist grinding against his skin. The urge to move with her broke through with the added touch, and his hips swiveled to meet her.

Her other hand circled his hardening length and his breath caught, indecision freezing him between thrusting up into her grip or down onto her fingers. She made the decision for him, stroking down his shaft as she thrust her fingers inside, pinning and releasing him repeatedly.

“ _Fuck… Fuck… Fuck…_ ” he panted with each movement, knowing his face was probably a contorted mess of expressions in the onslaught of overwhelming pleasure.

“Good ‘fuck’ or bad ‘fuck’, Draco?” she asked, not slowing.

He nodded, words failing him as she fisted his cock and fucked his ass with merciless precision.

Merlin, he thought, he should have fucked more Gryffindors. Was this what she did with Ron and Harry? Gods, did she fuck _Harry_ like this? 

Harry and his enormous stupid cock and his perfect ass and abs and those fucking shoulders cording with muscle as he drove that thick cock into… 

A tickle like feathers falling behind his eyes interrupted his thoughts, and the fingers inside him slowed. Legilimancy. 

“Granger…” he croaked, lifting his head to look at her. She was staring at him with wide eyes. Her tongue darted out to lick parted lips as she watched him.

“Sorry, I…” she started. “You didn’t say anything when I asked if you were okay, so I wanted to check, and I… sorry.”

“Great,” he muttered, hips still giving an involuntary thrust against her hands. The last thing he needed was a mouthy Granger knowing his inner thoughts just then. A Granger who was going to spend her evening under Potter. “Granger, I didn’t. I don’t-“

“Shh.” She hissed, cutting him off. He felt the flutter of her Legilimency again, and let her in.

 _Potter above her, his forearms under her shoulder blades.  
His fingers digging into her shoulders, face surprisingly placid while he moved above her. Potter’s deep moans rumbled through her chest._

Draco’s body tightened around her slowly moving fingers as he watched.

She shrugged and wiggled her fingers inside him distractingly. “It was an accurate mental image you had,” she said conspiratorially. “He does keep his glasses on. But he tends to drop down to his elbows. Better grip. He’s a bit aggressive like that.” 

Her hand brushed over the sensitive tip of him again, and his hips jerked.

“Granger,” he panted, “ he’d fucking kill you if he knew-“

“Hardly,” she huffed, spreading her fingers inside him.

_Potter easing into her, so slowly. So tight, patiently stretching around him. Green eyes watching her face for permission before he starts moving. Minutes later, Potter thrusting so deep into her, she feels him up to her navel and comes screaming into his shoulder. Her muscles squeezing his thick length as he pours himself into her._

He’d risen onto his elbows without noticing, and his hips stilled. A bead of clear fluid ran down his cock, and she swiped it with her thumb, spreading it over the head. He bit his lip at the sudden friction.

“That’s the part you didn’t get,” she said. 

Her fingers pulled out, and a third one slicked along his crack, gathering moisture. The three tented fingertips pressed against his entrance.

She licked her lips, and leaned forward as her fingers stretched him open. She rose up on her knees to hover her mouth over the tip of his cock, and whispered against it. 

“He’s fucking huge.”

Draco’s head fell back down as she pushed into him, watching him carefully. “Fuck, Granger,” he panted. “Fuck… Fuck… _Putain de…_ ”

The slick heat of her mouth slid down his length as she filled his ass. He came with sudden groan, spilling into her mouth.

He barely swallowed the name that threatened to fall from his lips.

————————————

Harry wrenched the cap off a bottle of vinegar and splattered entirely too much on his chips. “Dammit, Ron,” he fumed, “why did you think I always buy the pints at Muggle bars?”

“Cause you’re nice?” Ron ventured as he built a little log cabin out of chips, but mostly avoided eye contact with an angry Harry.

“No,” he spat, frowning at the overdose of vinegar he’d doled himself. “Because I have a Muggle PASS card, and you don’t. You’ve _held_ it, for Merlin’s sake.”

“Oh, right,” Ron muttered, not really looking like he understood what Harry was trying to explain.

Harry sighed, picking out the least sodden chips. It wasn’t Ron’s fault he didn’t know about identification cards or driving licenses. Their Muggle Studies courses had been entirely too focused on old cultural practices and Shakespeare, and neglected information on how to function in the wider world.

With a grunt of sudden realization, he pulled his phone out.

“Please tell me you’re not calling Hermione to make fun of me,” Ron said, already embarrassed. “Not in front of me, at least, Har.”

“No, I’ll do that over dinner tonight. In front of you. I’m going to need her help to figure out what to do about this mess of paperwork, too.” Harry said distractedly, pecking out a message. “I’m texting Luna. The Quibbler could do with an article on Muggle passports and licenses and identification and whatnot.”

“Hm,” Ron hummed in appreciation. “An interview with the Muggle-raised Head Auror would be a nice touch. Probably sell plenty of copies, too.”

Harry acquiesced in a nod, sliding the phone back in his pocket. “I’m not the Head Auror, though.”

Dread trickled down his spine at Ron’s casual usage of the title. Springing Ron from jail had been labeled a Head Auror case. Robards’ Floo shouldn’t have worked for him. And it certainly shouldn’t have sent him to the Head Auror box in Ballycastle.

“Right,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “Arse-end Auror, then.”

————————

“I said I wasn’t hungry. Stop trying to feed me,” she whined, wrinkling her nose at the proffered bowl. It was a mess of ingredients that could have been perfectly good sushi in more skilled hands.

Mouth full, he mumbled, “I’m not fucking you again till you eat something.”

“Fine,” she huffed with a dramatic eye roll. “But that’s way too much. I’m saving room for dinner.” She sat up and leaned against a small mountain of white pillows, tucking her legs up and crossing them.

“That salmon put up a fucking fight, and you’d best appreciate it,” he mocked. “Or I’ll find a mate who values my skills.”

She opened her mouth to argue that she wasn’t his mate, but the current condition of his bedsheets could disprove that. Her mouth snapped shut as he set the bowl in her naked lap. A ball of rice, pile of sashimi, and shredded vegetables stared up at her. At least he’d thrown a spoon into her bowl, she thought. He’d apparently decided his own bowl was finger food. 

Rather un-Malfoy.

Her mouth opened again to ask him how he’d caught the fish, but he popped a piece of it between her lips, then pinched them shut. With a scowl, she slowly chewed the meat and swallowed.

He hummed in satisfaction and ran his thumb across her bottom lip, entirely too absorbed in her consumption. His bottom lip disappeared as he sucked it under, biting down on the soft skin in obvious contemplation.

His body was definitely reacting as well, she noticed. Everything about his demeanor made her feel like she was stripping seductively, not… eating fish. No human would find that terribly sexy, she thought. Maybe other species…

“Oh,” she whispered, mainly to herself, but he was still watching her. “Eagles feed their mates, don’t they?”

“Mm hm,” he hummed, settling next to her with his own bowl, which appeared to entirely lack rice or vegetables.

“Ah, so you’ve brought your mate a catch, then?” she asked with a grin, picking up a piece of fish and offering it to him.

He plucked it from her fingers with his lips, though she’d expected him to suck on her fingers or something equally lewd.

“Mm hm,” he repeated, offering her another piece from his bowl.

“Hmm,” she mused, popping another piece in his mouth, his spreading smile contagious. He looked like he was opening Christmas presents, not eating a late lunch in bed. “What else am I missing about the eagle Animagus implications here?”

“Well,” he said, swallowing. “This particular mate is already rather at home in my nest. And she’s very much in estrus, which is fun.”

“I don’t plan on laying eggs, though,” she admonished, stealing a piece of fish from his bowl as he looked on approvingly. She’d meant it as a casual nudge to downplay the talk of mates.

His eyes suddenly shot wide in surprise. “Bloody hell. I’ve got a birthday present for you. Stay here.” He leapt out the bed in a barely-controlled tumble. “And finish that bowl, or you won’t get your gift.”

——————————

“So, you asked Malfoy _on_ a date?” Ron said, face scrunched up in confusion. “Or you told him _about_ a date? A calendar date?”

“I asked him to dinner when his parole is up,” Harry said, casting a glance at the Burrow excavation site. “In August. And he slammed the door in my face. Literally.”

Ron frowned and wondered if there was a spell for shite communication skills. Harry was actually turning out to be worse in regards to men than he already was with women, which meant he’d end up with insipid fanboys. Superb.

“Right, but… Har, you can have dinner. You had dinner with him at Hermione’s a month ago. You gave the man your curry, for Godric’s sake.”

“I know, but like, _dinner_ dinner,” Harry said, brows raised as he plopped down on a flat boulder next to his friend.

Ron scooted over to give Harry space to tuck his legs up on the rock’s surface. “Right, but if it’s just you two eating food, you don’t have to wait till August.”

“I guess,” Harry admitted. “But it’s dinner _alone_.”

A lightbulb flickered to life in Ron’s head. _Harry was afraid of being alone with Malfoy._

Maybe not unreasonably so. Apart from Cho, Ron couldn’t remember the last time Harry had so much as kissed a woman without end up balls-deep in her.

“You’re worried he’s going to make a pass at you,” Ron guessed.

“Uh huh.” Harry uttered with a sigh.

“And that you’re gonna let him,” Ron added.

“Uh huh,” Harry repeated, softly.

Ron kicked a dead blasting cap toward the nearest… well, not a pit anymore. The somewhat stately frame of Percy’s soon-to-be cottage. Once the floorboards were in place, it would look more like a house. A very nice house, if anyone asked him. And they might.

“You know he could have had you ten ways from Sunday after that Gala, right?” Ron reminded him. “And instead he brought you here and had Mum sedate your randy ass.”

“Uh huh.” Harry muttered again, swallowing thickly.

How he’d ended up both these men’s personal confidante, he had no idea, Ron thought. At least Hermione had the decency to just boss him around. With a soft smile, he hoped she was in an especially bossy mood tonight.

“Har, what do you want out of the bloke?” Ron groused. “He’s not going to risk Azkaban to get in your pants.”

Harry had unwittingly, as usual, chosen the worst possible day to proposition Malfoy. Ron doubted Malfoy had told Harry about the whole adoption situation, what with a possible smuggling adventure in their near future. 

Maybe get some space between his jail time today and divulging to his Auror friend that he was a petty criminal. Well, more than petty, really. And now he’d offered to delve into child trafficking, he thought wryly. But for _good_. Trafficking children _away_ from danger. Surely that made a difference?

Harry shrugged, face slack in confusion. Ron sighed, figuring he owed Harry for keeping him out of Muggle prison. And he was going to need cooperation beyond what the DMLE provided if he wanted to get his car back.

“We can invite him around more, yeah?” Ron offered.

Nodding, Harry turned to look at him. “Yeah. I liked it when we were all at Hermione’s flat.” Harry bit his lip and continued. “But whenever I’m alone with him, it just gets… I dunno.”

“Alright, then,” Ron replied, leaning onto his knees. “Mum’s got a whole list of furniture for me to take over to his… house? We calling it a house?”

Harry shrugged apathetically, but visibly relieved.

“Anyway, he’s got the better space now,” Ron preened, still quite happy with his renovations at Malfoy’s. “Once he’s got a decent table and chairs and whatnot, maybe we can persuade him to play host.”

“He used to host dinner parties,” Harry blurted, lips tight. “According to Falk.”

Ron huffed out a surprised breath. Malfoy’s contentment and skill in the kitchen wasn’t something new, then. And the Ministry had left him alone in a mineshaft living off raw fish for years. Fucking bastards.

“Confidentially, he made Mum’s pot pie…” Ron said, leaning in with a furtive glance toward the kitchen windows, “…better.”

———————————

“That’s a bit much, Draco.” Hermione said firmly, swallowing a spoonful of rice. She set the bowl in her lap and crossed her arms over her naked breasts, but it only served to put them on display.

He stood in the makeshift bookshelf doorway, stark naked, sopping wet, and held a golden egg the size of a goose egg. Like a Quidditch porno spoof, she thought, and stifled a chuckle. 

“‘A bit much’ is kind of my thing, _ma chatte_ ,” he snarked as he swaggered toward the bed. Wet footprints trailed on the stone behind him.

“I mean,” she huffed, finishing the bowl of not-sushi, “that it’s too large a gift.”

He smirked and knelt on the edge of the bed, water coursing enticingly down the planes of his chest, over his trim waist, and down his hips. 

“I think it’ll fit perfectly,” he replied innocently, sweeping his wet hair back.

A droplet gathered in his navel, tipped forward, and trailed down a fine, wispy line of blond hair. Her eyes followed the single bead as it edged down, gathered, speed, and raced down the length of his cock. The glistening drop beckoned her to catch it before it fell onto the sheets. 

Her mouth darted forward to catch it before her mind caught up to her body. The feel of his slick, wet skin against her lips was far more interesting than the crash, gasp, and hissed expletives in the background.

“Granger…” he drawled as he threaded wet fingers along her scalp.

Water followed his hand, and a cool wet line traced down her forehead, between her eyebrows, and down her nose. An obnoxious dangling drop of water tickled her nostrils and made her open her eyes. She hadn’t realized she’d closed them. Or that she’d had him in her mouth long enough for him to be hard again.

“Graaaaanger…” he sang, sounding a touch annoyed. “Are you going to let me explain your birthday present, or are you just going to suck cock all damn day?”

It was hard to argue with a dick down her throat, she thought as she slid him out. She doubled down on the scowl as she sat up. Just to make a point.

“What about it?” she asked, trying to hide her pout. “You’re Veruca Salt and you have a golden egg to prove it?”

“Who?”

Harry would have thought that was hilarious, she sulked. He set the egg in her waiting hand. It wasn’t as heavy as it looked, she thought as she rolled it back and forth. Why he’d hidden in the hot spring, she had no idea, but it radiated warmth with wonderful steadiness.

She looked up to ask him for his explanation, but shards of pottery on the floor next to the bed caught her eye. The remnants of the bowl that had been on her lap, spread out in a starburst.

“This is why I can’t have nice things,” Malfoy chided, looking down at the broken fragments. “Ministry thugs show up and break everything. They even set an intern on my dishes. I’m honestly down to a single bowl now.”

She shrugged in disregard. “So buy some bowls, Malfoy.”

“And _walk_ them home from Truro?” he countered. “You’ll just have to bring your own table service from now on. I don’t trust you with my last bowl.”

He crawled into the middle of the bed, if an effortlessly predatory stalk on all fours could be considered crawling. Grabbing a pillow, he flopped inelegantly on his side.

“You can drop _this_ all you want,” he said. “But I suspect the right knickers will keep it from hitting the ground.”

“Uh…okay.” Hermione muttered. “But I still think it’s excessive. For the record.”

She slid to the edge to the bed where her rucksack lay on the floor. She had no idea what he meant, but he was still hard. It was difficult to pay attention to the bizarre, extravagant gift while his cock was there, so she unzipped her bag to pack it away.

“Oh, no. No, no, no…” Malfoy drawled, gliding over. Deft fingers plucked the egg from her hands.

“This is leaving in your cunt, Granger.”

———————————

_Bring Draco dishes sometime._  
_Better yet, tell Ron to._

Harry frowned at his mobile, not sure what to make of the random messages from Hermione. How did she know he and Ron had just talked about getting together at Malfoy’s this afternoon?

**What? Why?**

_I dropped his bowl and broke it and I feel bad._

**So YOU bring him some damn dishes, Granger.**

Harry let the mobile clatter to his desk, annoyed. Why would Hermione think he wanted to help set up house at Malfoy’s? And since when was he “Draco”?

_Fine, I will. I thought you came round more often. Geez._  
_I’ll ask Ron about it tonight._

Sighing, he chastised himself for his shit mood and snippiness. It was well-deserved, though, he thought.

His interactions with Malfoy yesterday had been abysmal, both at the Stadium and Malfoy’s house. And Ron getting arrested this morning would have been the icing on the cake if…. 

If he hadn’t just sicked up in the bin while preparing for this Wizengamot Committee on Wizard Rights meeting. Lacking any other preparatory materials, he’d helped himself to Malfoy’s Pensieve vials all afternoon.

He would have ventured to say that Lucius and Narcissa had treated their son as expendable if they hadn’t also been wholly obsessed with him. The Malfoy Heir was indispensable to them, but _Draco_ was an afterthought.

He Vanished the vomit in the bin, anger and sorrow winding together into bitter resolve. Malfoy’s parents deserved to die very, very slowly.

He’d lost his tea earlier at the sound of Malfoy’s blood-soaked teeth tinkling into the porcelain of a Manor sink. There were multiple memories of that. Laughing too loudly at parties was a pet peeve of Lucius’s, it seemed.

Harry had lost his lunch at the fifteenth memory of Malfoy being on the ass-end of a _Crucio_ for something innocent. That particular one was for messing up a song on a harp when he was fourteen.

The memories followed a distinct pattern. First, Malfoy’s mind radiating even the slightest bit of joy at something. In this case, performing a difficult piece of music in the Manor parlor. And then the memory would predictably shift to a ridiculous accusation, usually by Narcissa. Then would come the absolutely unwarranted punishment.

 _Crucio_ for mistaken instrumental interludes, Blood Magic curses for imperfect table manners, isolation in his rooms for underdressing for dinner. It was a wonder the man was a functional member of society. Or… a mostly-functional shut-in, as it were.

Maybe bringing him a set of dishes wasn’t unreasonable. Hell, at the moment, he was prepared to buy the man a fucking harp.

Malfoy’s disdain for the elegant table settings of the Manor was palpable in his Pensieve memories. He’d probably prefer something less formal. Something he could decorate himself.

**Fuck it. I’ll grab him some dishes.**  
**Might charge it to the Ministry.**

Harry waited, expecting another prompt round of responses from Hermione. He stared at the screen until it went black. He shrugged and tucked his mobile in his pocket. With a stretch, he hopped up and braced himself.

It was time to flirt with middle-aged secretaries. He’d repeatedly declined their invitations to whatever the hell a pottery painting night was. Now, it was time for reconnaissance. 

———————

“I have to do _something_ between goes, Granger,” he chided, separating her hair into sections with a pen. “I’m not a fucking semen factory.”

“Beg to differ,” she mumbled into the mattress, wiggling her ass in the air.

“Mm hm,” he hummed, transferring the pen to his lips.

Her fever had finally abated, and he’d looked pleased with himself. _As the dose makes the poison, so does it make the cure,_ ma chatte. _Don’t waste a drop._

She sighed and relaxed her shoulders and chest down into the bed, hips still high. It was a decadent feeling, she mused, to have so much of his come in her. The cat that got the cream, she thought, hiding a snorting laugh against the soft sheets.

“You’d best not giggle-snort that out, Granger,” he muttered around the pen. A string of soft expletives in French trickled between his lips as his fingers worked in her hair. “ _Faire chier!_ These fucking curls, woman. Whose grave did your parents defile to earn these?!”

She bit her lip to stave off another round of giggles. “Why are you braiding my hair, anyway?”

“Entirely to show Ron up. But I believe I’m failing.” His hands stopped moving and ruffled out the plait he’d made. “You’re going to have to sit up. But not yet. Hold on.” He scooted back to grab the golden egg from the ledge at the head of the bed. 

She stretched her arms out in front of her along the bed and relaxed her shoulders back down with a sigh. Entirely too catlike, she mused. A nap sounded as good as more sex. Once the Healer in residence allowed her to lay flat.

“ _Califacto._ ” Draco whispered as he flopped on his back alongside her. He pressed the egg in his hands, testing the temperature, and drew a breath in hesitation. “You studied archeology, correct? Objects, not written histories?”

“Mm hmm,” she hummed drowsily, folding her forearms under her chin. “And philosophy.”

The world of artifacts and tagging and meticulously-organized sites seemed like a lifetime ago. Other than sharing those memories with him as practice, she hadn’t reminisced about them much. It was still odd to have him ask her out loud about things he’d only seen in her head.

“Right. Philosophy. Stop reshelving my Machiavelli texts between Penny Royal smut novels, by the way.”

“No.”

“Terrier…” he sighed with a toothy grin. “Anyway. I think this is a 700 year-old sex toy.”

“ _What??_ ”

——————————

The dishes were all… powdery, and Harry wasn’t sure if that was right, but he was desperate for something to keep his hands occupied.

Patricia, one of the senior secretaries, practically an administrator in her own right, had sent her assistant out straight away to fetch the supplies. A strikingly handsome man, Harry had to admit. 

Honey-blond hair in a low ponytail over slender, angular shoulders. Soft brown eyes below dark, sharp eyebrows. He had a petite, but agile build that made Harry want to jump up and help him with the boxes. Or jump up and do… something.

Kellan? Kieran? Something like that.

He’d offered to bring the boxes straight to Harry’s office from the shop. Patricia had been too distracted by the cacophony of fawning women to notice, so the two men had shrugged in silent agreement.

Should have had them delivered by the shop, he thought, watching him take down his hair and sort it into a tighter ponytail.

“That’s the last of them,” he said, straightening slowly. “The ink and glazes are in the small box with instructions.”

It hadn’t escaped Harry’s notice that he’d made more than a bit of a show about bringing the boxes in one at a time and bending over far more than was necessary.

“Oh, uhm, thanks…” Harry trailed off.

“Calix,” the man supplied with a soft smile. “Calix Onasis.”

The name rolled off his tongue in a clipped, elegant cadence. Greek, Harry thought, looking up from the gritty plate in his hands. 

Brown eyes studied his reaction. The harsh light from the hallway glanced off high cheekbones and traced his full lips.

“But just ‘Cal’ is fine,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Anything else I can do for you, Auror Potter?”

“Uhm, no. Thanks,” Harry said thickly.

He tried to keep his eyes above the man’s chest and failed miserably. Whether he had intentionally turned to outline his figure in the bright doorway, Harry wasn’t sure. But it was difficult to ignore. Long legs, narrow waist. A dancer’s build, Harry thought.

 _Auror_ Potter, he reminded himself. There was nothing to be gained in ogling men at work, anyhow. 

Onasis turned to go, but hesitated, fingertips tracing the doorframe. “Well done, by the way,” he said softly over his shoulder. “With Falk.”

“What?” Harry questioned. “Oh! No. That was all wrong. We’re… acquaintances, at most.”

“Oh…” Onasis whispered, eyebrows raised. Slowly, he turned back around to face Harry. “And the rest of the article?”

A blush crept up Harry’s neck as he caught the blonde’s gaze. His brown eyes held an eager glint that made Harry’s cock throb in anticipation. “I’m not… Head Auror,” Harry admitted. “The rest was accurate.”

“Hm,” he hummed, biting his bottom lip in thought. His perfect teeth slicked over the plump, pink skin, and Harry found himself mimicking the gesture.

Onasis took a precautionary glance out into the hallway and stepped back into Harry’s office with a conspiratorial grin. “A few of us light a bowl of _Libidentia_ in the secretary pool men’s loo on Friday nights,” he lilted nonchalantly. “Head Auror, Tail Auror, whatever you like. Six o’clock tonight. Just knock.”

With a lingering glance up Harry’s chest to his face and a soft smile, he turned and left.

Harry swallowed past a lump in his throat. “Oh, Merlin.”

—————————

“You really are a magnificent little cumslut,” Draco cooed, pressing the narrow end of the egg against her entrance.

It would be easier if she’d stop trying to help. Her wiggling was encouraging, but not productive. Really, he thought, he could ram it in with the heel of his hand, and she’d just ask for more.

She hummed in non-committal agreement.

“So suggestible, too,” he chided, resting his other palm against her clit. Maybe having something to grind against would at least give her something to do.

“Am not,” she huffed before hiding her face against the sheets again.

With a gentle nudge, the egg slid in. She groaned deeply and rocked her hips back as it sank in and disappeared from his sight.

He patted her on the ass and she rolled over. A lazy, content smile graced her face, but her brows were knit in mock offense. “You skipped a contraception charm on the word of a Death Eater, _ma chatte_ ,” he replied, settling himself on his side next to her.

She yawned spectacularly, jaw cracking. “Maybe I just trust you.”

“A _dumb_ cumslut, then,” he said with a shit-eating grin.

Her hand reared back for a playful slap to his arm, but froze. He tried to hide a soft smile watching her curtail her response, grateful she’d taken his words to heart. It had only been weeks since she’d taken a swing at him and accused him of plotting against her. It would be a lot longer than that before he forgot about it.

“Want to see a trick?” he offered, hoping to wipe the pained frown from her face.

“Oh. Sure,” she breathed, eager for the distraction.

“Okay, but I’ve only read about it in books,” he said.

“That’s usually my line,” she retorted, grinning.

“Ah, true,” he said, matching her smile.

His fingers settled between her navel and cleft, and she snatched them up, suddenly worried. “What if Ron and Harry don’t appreciate... this?” She said haltingly, hand gesturing over her sex.

“Ron’s very amenable to the needs of itchy witches. And Potter… who can predict Potter?” he said with a shrug. “If they react poorly, you can always come back.”

“Oh… okay,” she whispered, releasing his fingers.

“Most likely, far and away, _ma chatte_ ,” he whispered against her ear, fingers trailing back to her hips, “they are going to fuck you till you can’t scream anymore. _Tremefacio_.”

A faint hum resonated under his fingers, and she groaned. Whether in pleasure or relaxation, he wasn’t sure. Her eyes drifted shut, and he studied her. She really was magnificent, he thought. Her curls covered most of her pillow, and he selected one, stretching it out and watching it recoil. Her lips parted and her breathing slowed.

The hours he’d spent filtering through her uni memories had been… endearing. She was the same swotty girl she’d been as a child, but with the maturity and passion of a grown woman. And her ability to link philosophical discourse to archeology in obscure, tangential ways made his cock throb.

His spell faded, and the egg stopped humming. Her eyes opened slowly.

“I wasn’t sure if you were falling asleep or working on an orgasm,” he whispered, lips descending to graze along her shoulder.

“Both, I think,” she murmured drowsily. “Wake me up in an hour?” She yawned again and rolled over to snuggle her back up against him. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

“Mm hm,” he hummed, inhaling the scent of her skin. He swallowed the bitterness of a double-edged envy that she’d soon be leaving for Potter’s bed. Surely she’d return, though, wouldn’t she?

“Wish you could come along,” she sighed.

“Wish you could stay.”

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
_Chut…_ Shh…

Maybe we don’t say it?  
We’ll just know it and that’s that.

How ‘bout we just feel it?  
Cuz then you can’t take it back.

What if we let it hang there?  
So I won’t have to know.

And when you’re done with me,  
I’ll pretend you’d always meant to go.

DLM 2007 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	22. Trojan Whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut... like... SMUT.  
> Draco's stunt pays off. Harry's day improves immeasurably.
> 
> Hermione's day goes to shit.
> 
> Ron thinks some deep thoughts and steals fortune cookies.
> 
> Hermione and Draco bond over having parents who aren't family.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Bacchanal Ballad

Witches with itches, like Seekers and Snitches,  
Chasing a song, new taste on their lips.

Misplaced twitches in smoldering britches,  
Waiting too long, a haste to their hips.

Regardless of riches, or loyalty switches,  
Heedless if wrong, unchaste in the grip.  


DLM 2002 Durmstrang Institute  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

_To Whom it May Surprise and Delight,_

_I have sent along a birthday treat for you to all enjoy together. Granger is keeping it warm._

_Best wishes,  
DLM_

_PS: Have a napkin at the ready.  
PPS: The birthday girl may refuse to share._

——————————————

Harry re-read the elegantly-scrawled note, one hand idly stroking Hermione’s ass. What the fuck did Malfoy mean?

“Dammit, Hermione.” Harry snapped. “Just tell us what’s up your quim.”

She shot him a challenging glare over her shoulder, somehow threatening even on her hands and knees. He cringed and mouthed an apology.

Gods, he was in a shit mood. Stopping by the mens’ loo had been a terrible fucking idea. The hallway had absolutely reeked of teakwood, and he didn’t want to admit who he thought he’d see inside.

Instead, he’d gotten an eyeful of Onasis getting buggered halfway up a wall. It was equal parts arousing and terrifying. He’d let out an awkward squeak, turned, and left. Not the most dignified exit.

“Sorry, just…” he started, “dinner will be here any minute, and I’d rather not answer the door starkers.”

Ron hollered around the edge of the master bath door frame, steam illuminated behind him. “Is it actually food, ‘Mione? Cause that would narrow it down.”

“It’s… edible,” she said equivocally.

“Probably some kind of Muggle rubbish,” Ron mocked. “Like that candy made of corn. Or is it corn made of candy?”

“It’s not candy corn,” she said with a wiggle. “And this brand is decidedly not Muggle.”

“Good,” Harry blurted, shuddering at the thought of candy corn stuck to his teeth. “Is it a food Ron and I like to eat?”

“Uhm…” she drawled, thinking. “I’m fairly certain you’ve both had it, but I’m not sure how much you enjoy it.”

“Bollocks,” Ron announced, leaving the loo in another pair of exquisitely tight satin pants. Crimson, this time. “I’ll eat anything.”

“I guess we can test that,” she chided. “Give up?”

“Yeah, I have no idea,” Harry admitted and looked to Ron, who shrugged.

Hermione wiggled her hips in invitation, and Harry scooted closer, sliding his knees between her spread thighs.

Ron disappeared, and Harry heard him brushing his teeth. Almost certainly with Harry’s toothbrush. A bit disgusting. Or maybe not, considering how often they’d shared women.

Harry palmed her mound and was rewarded with an unexpectedly eager moan. She was hot and wet against his hand already, and his cock throbbed in expectation.

Tentatively, he slid a finger just inside her entrance and waited for instruction. She said nothing, but pressed herself harder against his palm. Further inside, he felt something hard. Something smooth, but with finger-sized dips. Sliding a second finger inside, he grabbed a hold of it and tugged gently.

It slid to her entrance, but her core tightened around it and she moaned. “Greedy witch,” he said with a short laugh. “You really aren’t going to share, are you?”

She sighed in concentration. “Okay,” she said resolutely. Harry pulled again, and saw a glint of gold between her parting folds.

“Just pull, Harry,” she encouraged. With an unexpected pop, he suddenly held a slick golden egg in his hand. 

“Huh,” he huffed to himself. 

It was the egg Malfoy had gotten at the Goblin Gala. He rolled it in his hands, watching the finger holds fill in. It was a lot larger than he remembered.

The girth of it should maybe intimidate him, he figured. But he had to admit it excited the hell out of him. He’d been afraid of hurting her the first few times they’d been together. The fact that she could stretch to accommodate something _larger_ than him was sexy as all hell. He didn’t really care why.

“What’s it, then?” Ron asked, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

Harry handed it over to Ron, who inspected it. “How do we open it, ‘Mione?”

She didn't respond, and Harry set his palm against her clit again. She groaned low and needy.

“Maybe put it underwater?” Harry offered.

“It worked once, didn’t it?” Ron said with a shrug, and headed to the kitchen.

Harry’s attention turned back to the gorgeous offering in front of him. He sighed, glad he’d left the scene in the restroom tonight. This was so much better. 

Maybe a little less exciting, he thought, but he could…

He lost his train of thought as several drops fell from her waiting slit onto his thighs.

“Dammit, ‘Mione!” Ron hollered from the kitchen sink. “Is there a fucking password or something?”

Hermione’s back shook with laughter, and Harry felt something warm patter over his thighs and the end of his cock. With a start, he looked down and briefly choked on air. 

A startled shout erupted from his chest as he surveyed the mess in his lap. Opaque white splatters decorated his tan skin, and he struggled to put words to it.

“What, Har?” Ron yelled back.

Harry’s breath came in strained pants. She hadn’t crossed Malfoy’s wards till an hour ago. She’d been with him all day. But she wouldn’t do that. And he wouldn’t… This… No.

“Hermione…” he whispered.

She turned to look at him with a wink. “Have at it.”

“Oh, gods below…” Harry whispered, streaking his fingers up his thigh.

His fingertips rubbed against each other. Slickness spread thin across the ridges of his fingerprints as he tried to control his breathing and ignore the nearly-painful throb in his cock.

“It’s come, Ron!” Harry shouted. “It’s fucking come!”

“What?” Ron yelled back. “Dinner’s here?”

“No!” Harry shouted. “It’s just all fucking come. She’s just fucking full of it!”

Hermione’s shoulders rose, and she laughed again, spilling more onto his hand as he stared on in shock.

A buzzer sounded in the living room, and Ron let out an excited hoot. Harry stared at the wall across the hall through the empty bedroom doorway as if Ron could feel his disapproval.

What the fuck was he supposed to now? He knew what he wanted to do, but that was…. Could he do that?

Hermione sighed and spun around, grinning wickedly. Her face dropped to his thigh, tongue cleaning a line straight through the mess. Rising, she let him see the white pool collected in her cupped tongue as she hid it behind her lips.

She leaned forward and caught his lips against hers. Hesitantly, he kissed her back. He opened his mouth and gasped, accepting the wet rush she slid across his tongue.

He grunted and gripped the back of her head, crushing her mouth to his. It was… different. Salty. Less bitter than he’d expected.

His mind spun. This was what Malfoy tasted like. Merlin Almighty, he had Draco Malfoy’s come in his fucking mouth. And on his legs. And on his fucking cock.

With a deep groan, he released her and scraped up the remnants from his thighs. His hand wrapped around his length, squeezing tight. It slicked his skin, and his own hand felt overwhelming good.

“Fuck,” he panted, “fuck, fuck, fuck, Hermione…”

She sat back and watched him, lips between her teeth. “I want yours, too,” she said, leaning back in invitation. “With his.”

“Gods, yes,” he breathed as he settled himself above her.

He sank his entire length into her in one slow thrust. Her nails dug into his back, but he paid it little mind. The slick heat enveloping his cock was quickly becoming too much, and he tried to slow down.

She arched her hips up to meet him, faster and harder, needy whimpers punctuating each movement.

“Please,” she chanted, urging him on.

Pleasure coiled deep in his hips, rising with each of her pleas.

With a final thrust, he plunged into her and spilled over, groaning his release against her neck. Her core tightened around him, squeezing, begging him for every last drop.

“Fuck, Hermione,” he whispered into her hair.

“Mm hm,” she hummed satisfactorily, running her nails up his back.

“Just… _fuck_.” He nuzzled into her hair with a deep sigh.

Ron’s voice sounded from the living room, and they both snickered. 

“I’m eating your fortune cookies, you sluts!”

———————————

The London streetlights outside the window next to Ron were entirely too bright, in his opinion. Hermione’s arm lay over his chest. Her breath was warm and steady against his shoulder. Behind her, Harry dozed fitfully, his jaw clenching and unclenching randomly. 

Ron couldn’t sleep. Or, more accurately, he just didn’t feel like sleeping. Wanking, maybe, but not sleeping.

Actually, he thought, rubbing one out didn’t sound all that appealing, either. If he physically could. His balls were beyond spent.

He’d heard stories from his brothers about witches in heat, but he’d always thought they were embellished tales. Apparently not.

Plucking the gold egg from the nightstand, he held it up in the light. With a trickle of magic, the finger holds reappeared. Interesting design, he mused, wondering if smelting would be a worthwhile hobby.

He’d caught most of the cock-drunk stuporous lecture Hermione had delivered around adorably oversized mouthfuls of pad thai. If Draco was correct, this thing should be in a museum, not in his hand. 

He’d heard of Soleil Black and a Goblin alliance at some point in history, but he hadn’t ever thought it was real. Let alone that it could be traced back to the 1300s. Mum would appreciate whatever records Draco had scared up from the Goblins, Ron thought, setting the egg back down.

Soleil Black, aka, Father Black. Progenitor of the Black line. Father to more than a dozen pureblood witches and wizards. No wonder, if he spent his free time making things like this, Ron figured. Randy old wizard.

A common ancestor to him, Harry, Draco, and a whole hell of a lot of the magical community. It felt oddly fitting that the egg had found its way to their bed.

Giving up on sleep for the time being, he slid out from under the blankets, replacing his chest with a pillow under Hermione’s arm. She stirred, but quickly settled.

Not for the first time, he wished he and Draco had mobiles. Or that Draco had a Floo. Or that he could receive owls. Basically, he wished Draco Malfoy didn’t live in a literal hole in the ground and was a real pain in the arse to contact. Occasionally a pain in the arse, in general.

He grabbed a pen and pad of paper off Harry’s refrigerator and scribbled a quick note to Draco, folding it over several times. With a second piece of paper, he cobbled together an envelope by magically sealing the edges, concealing the note inside.

He left the letter on the counter with a note for Harry or Hermione to write Draco’s post box address on it.

It only seemed polite, he thought as he slipped back into bed.

—————————————

The mattress shifted, and Harry woke up with a start. Ron had rolled over or something, he assumed. Hermione appeared to be out cold. As she should be, really.

He wondered if she’d still be up to visiting Wheezes and shopping in Diagon Alley tomorrow. Plans that involved her having to walk much seemed unlikely to happen. But if they stayed in, they’d absolutely end up fucking her to pieces again. Or vice versa.

Smirking at the idea, he reached for his glasses. Eventually, he was going to remember to move his clock so he could read it without them. 3:35 AM. Normally, he’d wank himself back to sleep, but sure as hell not tonight. His cock was already too sensitive against the sheets, he noticed. And he was thirsty as all hell.

Peeling his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he swung his legs out of bed. He blinked slowly, shooting the clock a disapproving glare.

In the kitchen, three glasses of water later, he noticed an improvised envelope with a note from Ron to Malfoy. He had utterly no clue what Ron would want to tell Malfoy that was better-delivered in the post than by just Apparating to his house to tell him.

It was kind of nice, though, he thought. If he was going to mail something to Malfoy for Ron, he might as well include something from himself, too.

Ripping off a couple pieces from the notepad, he followed Ron’s lead. He grabbed his phone and filled in Malfoy’s post box address on both. No reason not to drop them in his box tonight, he figured.

Briefly, he considered walking to the front of the building naked, but figured someone might actually be about. Bit of hypocrisy if he got a citation for public nudity after being cross with Ron for his infractions. With a shrug, he walked back to the bedroom for a bathrobe.

As he slid into the robe, a loud vibration shook his nightstand. Startled, he could have sworn the golden egg had come to life shaking and flashing. 

No, not flashing. Reflecting the light of Hermione’s mobile. The hum of the phone had shook the egg into motion, and it rolled silently forward. With a solid thud, it landed on the carpet.

“Hermione,” he whispered, rubbing her calf through the blankets.

“Mmmnnnh,” she groaned, kicking at his hand.

“Hey, Birthday Girl, your mobile’s ringing. Says it’s your mum calling,” he hissed, hoping he wasn’t waking Ron, too.

“Oh,” she said, a deep breath shuddering in as she woke. “Hand it here.”

“Sure,” he murmured, unplugging it and passing it over Ron. “I’m gonna use the hall loo.”

“Okay, thanks,” she whispered back, sliding out of the bed and disappearing into the master bathroom with her mobile.

Harry frowned, a little worried why her mum was calling in the middle of the night. But he supposed it was the middle of the day in Australia. Maybe they just weren’t good at timing their calls.

He shrugged and wandered down the hall.

———————————

“Is he alright?” Hermione whispered, holding back a nervous sob.

“ _Oh, of course, love. As far as heart attacks go, it was rather minor. He came home from hospital yesterday._ ”

“Home? But what about surgery?” she croaked, terrified.

“ _It wasn’t as bad as all that. They put a stent in the day before last and held him overnight. He’s fine, really. Mostly testy that he can’t ride his bike for a few weeks, maybe longer. I just wanted you to know._ ”

“Oh, okay,” she replied as she wiped tears from her eyes before they could fall. It didn’t count as crying if she caught them before they touched anything.

“ _Anyway, I won’t keep you. I just realized what time it is there. So sorry, love. Call me after breakfast there if you have any questions, right?_ ”

“Yeah, okay, Mum,” she said, and the call ended.

Hermione stared at the screen. Her mum had never been one for long phone conversations, even before the Obliviation. But Merlin, she’d had warmer exchanges while ordering takeaway.

She sat on the edge of the tub, replaying the short conversation in her head. Her mum had waited two days to even tell her her father had had a heart attack? 

How many other people had she decided to inform first? All of their friends in Perth, almost certainly. Their whole cycling club, likely. Their dentistry business partners. The entire office staff. At least fifty people, she summed up. And _then_ she’d decided to call Hermione? Was that how far down she ranked in importance?

Her thumb scrolled through the log of calls on her mobile. That had been the first call she’d gotten from them since she left. Over a month ago.

And all the calls before that were under five minutes. Always just to check in on what time and where they were meeting. Never any phone calls to just talk. Just logistical chitchat. Usually her calling them.

The tears escaped and trailed down her cheeks. The door to the bedroom clicked shut, and she looked up, catching her reflection in the mirror. 

Seeing her own tear-streaked face somehow made her sorrow real. Her hands clapped over her mouth to quiet the lone sob that wrenched up out of her chest.

Bleary-eyed, she looked up to find Harry waiting in the doorway in a gray bathrobe. “What happened?” he whispered, looking over his shoulder as Ron stirred and yawned demonstrably.

“Where’d everybody go?” Ron drawled, groping around the bed.

“Hermione’s mum just called.” Harry replied, standing to the side while Ron shuffled naked to the doorway.

“What happened, ‘Mione?” He asked, still squinting as he sat down and wrapped an arm around her. With a bitter smile, she thought this was the least sexy she’d ever felt in a naked embrace with a man.

“My dad had a heart attack this week.” She held up a hand to halt the concern that filled both their faces. “He’s fine. It was minor. He’s already back at their house. It’s just…”

She searched their faces. Harry looked like he was ready to Apparate them all, clothed or not, straight to the other side of the planet. Ron scowled, appearing more angry than worried. “They just now told you?” Ron asked softly. His head leaned over on top of hers as he pulled himself closer.

“Yeah. I just… And I guess it’s not that unusual. I’ve always been the one to reach out to them,” she started. “I always arranged time together in Perth. I made the dinner reservations. I planned the holidays. I was literally the one to always call first.” 

She held up her mobile as evidence, not that the screen was anything but a black rectangle, but maybe it would distract them from watching her face crumple.

“And then when they finally did have something they needed to tell me,” she continued, breath in a hitching whine. “It took them days to remember. Or to bother.”

Ron bundled her against his chest. Her arms came around his back, clutching him tight as she let the sobs break. He whispered against her hair, but she couldn’t understand what he was cooing. It didn’t matter, anyway. That he was there was enough.

She pulled back, and Harry handed her a wad of toilet paper. Accepting it with an embarrassed but grateful smile, she wiped her face and blew her nose.

“And she didn’t even wish me a happy birthday,” she added, breaking into jagged sobs again.

————————————

Draco frowned and set the cracked granite pieces in the pile on the hearth. It was proving exceptionally difficult to carve it into usable bowls without having them break.

Ron had used a combination of spells and charms that involved abrasion and water at the same time. Probably to keep the stone from overheating. An amount of magic he couldn’t get away with.

 _Rosy-fingered dawn_ , he thought, turning a fragment in the weak sunlight. It was almost time to run the wards. And then fish. And then maybe see if Eira was at the library in the afternoon. Come home. Prep the fish. Do a sunset run of the wards again. Eat the fish. Go to bed.

A good day. A blessedly normal day.

He changed into jogging shorts and trotted out to the north edge of the ward, closest to the sea. Something had hit there last night. If he timed it right, he’d get the best view of the sunrise over the hills as he made his way east. 

It was a little over three miles all the way around. Just enough to get moving.

Approaching the north edge of the ward, he withdrew his knife and examined the small blade in the peach glow of the rising sun. That he’d held onto it through the war, escape, and Azkaban still amazed him. Nobody had thought to look for a weapon embedded in the flesh under his Mark. Their mistake.

Swirls that may have been waves or vines traced the hilt, if the stub could be called that. Centuries had rubbed the design smooth.

Nicking between his fingers, he pressed the hand to the ground and patched the small divot an owl’s payload had left. A minor hex, by the feel of it. Just a casual _Fuck you_ from someone with an extra galleon at an owlery desk.

Knife in hand, he took off eastward, testing the ward as he ran, barefoot over the sandy soil. He fell into a ground-eating lope and found himself at the eastern edge as the sun broke over the hills. Perfect timing, he thought, watching the rays askance.

Someone nudged magic against the ward. Not knocked, or probed, but just… nudged. Reluctantly? Grudgingly? It was an odd approach, and he waited for a signature.

Paper-thin, worn leather. Granger again. Not angry, but not her usual signature. Tired, probably. He admitted her and set off at a dead sprint, estimating her walking speed toward the door versus his own adjusting trajectory.

Within minutes, he angled to intercept her exactly at the garden wall. Perfect calculation, he congratulated himself. Advanced Arithmancy payoff.

High on his own brilliance, he slowed his trot and hopped onto the wall to catwalk the last few meters to her on the path. A pirouette would be appropriate up here, he thought, but surveyed his audience.

She ambled slowly up the path, eyes downcast. Her rucksack was thrown over one shoulder and her other hand held the egg.

His gut sank as he took her in. She’d been crying. And for quite a while, by the look of it. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Maybe she’d gone back to her own flat to cry it out till dawn.

Potter wouldn’t have kicked her out in the middle of the night, would he? 

Perhaps. If they’d gone out to dinner, seen a show, maybe engaged in other activities, and had just recently gotten around to fucking and finding that egg. And his… gift.

The niggling malevolent voice in his head asked why he should care if they did reject her. If he had misjudged his actions and sabotaged her relationship with Potter and Weasley, what was that to him? More Granger for him, is what it would be. And he _did_ want more of her.

Bah, he thought, rolling his shoulders. Slytherin subterfuge rarely yielded positive results.

“What happened?” he panted, blowing out measured breaths. He wiped sweat off his forehead and willed his pulse to slow down. 

“Family stuff,” she whispered. Fatigue rolled off her in waves.

He sighed in commiseration and hopped down to walk her into the house.

——————————

She bit her lip, trying to assemble memories into a cloud like he’d shown her, but they were slippery. In a last ditch effort, she pictured the Occlumency as a big net, and scooped them up. It worked, and she squeaked in surprise.

Grey eyes looked across the pillow at her, confused but patient.

“Ah, you got it,” he said beaming. “Wait. _A net?!_ Loon. Magnus uses a box. It’s like going through a file cabinet. Very tidy. Very efficient. Very boring.”

“Yours are like a sack of angry cats,” she retorted. It was true, though. His transfers of memories had to be opened carefully, lest they all fly out at once.

She’d bundled up relevant memories from the phone call and leaving Harry’s, as well as a snippets of her relationship with her parents in Perth. A good enough summary, she hoped. It was a bit like assembling a research paper. The Granger Family Dynamic: A Meta-Analysis.

With a sigh, she snuggled closer to him and put her forehead against his. It didn’t actually help the Legilimency, but she liked it. His eyes drifted shut, and she wondered vaguely if her memories flopped around like fish when he opened the net. 

She yawned, her own eyes closing. She’d have to ask him if her memories acted like fish. He’d like catching them, maybe.

——————————

“Granger,” a deep voice whispered. Probably a dream.

“Hermione. Wake up.” 

“ _Ma chatte_! The library’s on fire!”

She snorted in shock and sat up. “What?!”

“Circe’s spleen, you were out cold,” he huffed, giving her a peck on the forehead. “I’ve riffled through your brain thoroughly. You need to send Potter a message before you go back to sleep.”

“What?” She repeated, blinking slowly. The sun was still rising. And they were laying exactly the same as when he’d started in on her memories.

“You were only asleep for a few minutes,” he interjected. “But when they wake up and find you gone, it won’t be pretty.”

“Huh?” Gods, he didn’t make any sense at all. Shutting her eyes and going back to sleep made all the sense in the world. Easy, too, she thought, relaxing into the pillow.

“ _Ma chatte_ ,” he hissed, the beginnings of annoyance audible. “You can’t Apparate out in the middle of the night after you left them without a word for nine years.”

 _That_ woke her up. “Oh,” she said softly, shame burning hot across her face. He was right. Harry and Ron would probably check her apartment, and then…

“They’ll end up burning down Perth looking for your delectable ass,” he filled in.

He slid something thin but hard between her thighs. It slid easily along the fabric of her trousers, against her rather tender sex. She moaned softly, but he deposited it there and withdrew. 

Her mobile.

It vibrated, and she yipped in surprise and glared at him. It was the ring of an old message that had probably been going for a while.

“Pervert,” she chided. He shrugged and accepted the compliment.

_Hermione, where are you?_  
_Are you okay?_  
_Did you go home?_  
_We’re popping over._  
_WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?_  
_Ron’s getting Percy. What the fuck, Hermione?_  
_TEXT ME BACK._

The messages had started twenty minutes ago. And damned if Draco wasn’t right. They were going to get an international Portkey at dawn on a Saturday.

**I’m at Malfoy’s. I’m fine. Mostly fine. Just… family stuff.**

A thunderclap sounded from near the road, and Draco gasped next to her. “There’s a _very_ upset Auror outside my wards,” he whispered. “Again.”

“Let him stay there,” she said, laying her head on his chest. He hummed hesitantly in warning, but wrapped an arm around her and nodded.

_He’s not letting me in. Are you sure you’re okay?_

She pecked out one last message, one-handed.

**Yeah, just tired. I’ll catch up with you two for dinner.**

_Okay, birthday girl._  
_Tell him there are dishes in boxes out here that can’t get wet. And clouds rolling in._  
_Pints on me tonight._

She angled the phone so Draco could read it, and he huffed a confused breath.

“Why did he bring me dishes?” he asked, frowning.

“I told him about your bowl situation,” she said, stifling a grin. “I don’t know why they can’t get wet.”

“Oh,” she added with a start, “and there are some kind of letters in the front of my bag for you.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, staring at the ceiling. His silence was disconcerting, and she wondered if it had been too much to ask him to hold Harry at bay for her. Probably, given their criminal-Auror relationship.

“Why did you come here, Hermione?” he said gently, but she could hear the annoyance under his concern. “You were in bed between men who would have done anything for you.”

She shrugged. “They would cheer me up. I didn’t want to be cheered up.”

“You came here to wallow in misery?” he half-joked, looking down at her.

“Kind of,” she admitted. “I tried wallowing in my apartment for a few hours, but decided I didn’t want to wallow alone.”

“I’m an experienced wallower, I suppose.” He sighed and laid his hand over hers. “And you’ve spent too much time alone, _ma chatte_.”

Her breath caught at his words. They’d never talked about it, but they’d both seen it in each other's memories. Endless hours spent alone. In libraries. In a cell. In rooms of faceless classmates. At formal parties. In dormitories. On cliffs over the sea. 

Over dinners with parents who were more placeholders than parents. 

Always alone. Entirely fucking alone.

His heartbeat was slow and steady under her hand and in her ear. She melted against him, grateful he understood.

——————————

She was leaving in much better shape than she’d arrived, Draco thought to himself. Fed, rested, scrubbed, braided, and if he dared to say it, comforted.

He leaned in the doorway, watching her walk to the road. She could have Apparated, he figured, but she was taking her time.

Off to do important things with important wizards, he mused. And really, he was equally content to linger and watch her go. He felt a surprising amount of pride in having taken care of the woman proudly striding out into the sunset.

The setting sun to his right cast her shadow out long across the barren field. She turned to glance over her shoulder, and he gave her a half-wave, motioning her on.

Unexpected warmth crept through his chest. Pleasant, but a bit foreign. Like an excellent bowl of soup.

With a pop, he knew she’d reached the road and left. He turned and surveyed his living room and kitchen. Several rather nice fish awaited cleaning in the sink. More than he could reasonably eat alone.

Boxes of dishes sat on the hearth rug, instructions and glazes already unpacked. The bowls, in particular, were a lovely size and shape. Just enough of a rim to tap a spoon on, but not over-wide and likely to chip. Big enough to serve a soup as a meal, but not so big as to cool it too quickly.

It was shockingly thoughtful for Potter, given the man generally moved through the world like an inebriated Aurox. Perhaps he only bumbled under observation, and wasn’t incompetent when given time to think. 

With a frown, Draco wondered how often Potter got to react _without_ being put on the spot. For all the time he and Hermione each spent in thoughtful seclusion, was Potter _ever_ without an audience waiting for his reaction?

He, himself, had certainly pinned him down and forced a response out of him the other night. And then summarily left him out in the cold while he fucked Hermione. That hadn’t been well-played.

Mulling an appropriate apology, he noticed the makeshift envelopes Hermione had left on the table. He opted to open Harry’s first, while walking to the bedroom.

_Dear Malfoy,_

_I do like a good tart._

_Until next time,  
Harry_

_PS: A napkin was wholly inadequate._

He snorted a laugh. Potter was apparently wittier with time to think, too.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he opened the second envelope.

_Dearest Ferret,_

_Thank you for sending the lovely pie. It was enjoyed by all. Harry went back for seconds._

_Much obliged,  
Ronald Bilious Weasley_

Draco’s grin spread so wide, he hid it behind his hand. A snorting guffaw erupted from his chest, and he looked around furtively.

He set the two notes on the ledge above the bed, and set off to paint some damned soup bowls.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
À Deux Exes’ Machinations

My biography, in gasps and moans, has risen forth to claim me.  
And so bodily, they saved me.

How fitting, here, that those who’ve seen me crumble,  
Saw fit to catch me when I stumble.

Chronicles and histories, each a blessed missile,  
Consensus welcome mystery, in ears deemed most official.

DLM 2007 Ministry Headquarters London  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	23. Overthings and Undertones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody tell Harry he's on a date. He'll figure it out someday.
> 
> Draco makes dinner, gets tipsy, tells Harry things. Harry feels bad for dumping his horny, panicky ass on Draco's doorstep and having no idea about the rest of his life. Not everything is about your sexuality, Harry.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Just Dinner

It’s… bouillabaisse?  
I swear to Merlin, it’s just soup.

It’s bouillabaisse!  
You make everything go sideways.  
Such a fucking nincompoop.  
I’m not trying to stage a coup.

It’s bouillabaisse…

DLM 2007 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

It was a suspicious envelope, Harry thought, turning it over in the disarmament chamber. The paper looked somehow antique but new. The blocky script that gouged his name into the paper was downright alarming. Hence the chamber.

It didn’t have any magic embedded in it, but… it just felt threatening. Auror instincts.

With a deep breath, he slit the envelope open roughly with a finger and peered inside, half-expecting a swarm of venomous insects or a glitter bomb or something equally annoying. Instead, a piece of coarse paper stuck to the inside of the envelope. 

With a huff of annoyance, he ripped the envelope open wide. The delicate paper inside tore clean through. He frowned and lined the pieces up.

The border was a gnarled, seething arrangement of inked vines with jagged lightning bolts and thorns woven through. Part of him expected to see the vines jump to life in a jade cacophony of animation, but the black ink just sat there. 

He nudged a bit of magic into it, just to be sure. Nothing. Pity.

_Potter,_

_Please join me for dinner.  
Wednesday, 6:00 PM  
My house  
No need to RSVP_

_DLM_

A signature in three letters, carved with a ballpoint pen.

The script was the same as the front of the envelope, and it gave him pause. Where was Malfoy’s elaborate scrawling calligraphy? And he was inviting him to a formal dinner? Like the ones he’d seen in Magnus’ memories?

He’d reviewed that particular memory multiple times. Images of roasted duck and crispy potatoes danced in his head. And a happy, affectionate Draco, as well. It would be so much easier to talk to him with the others around.

Hermione and Ron had probably received their invitations today. Maybe Pansy and Luna and Neve, too. He’d love to catch up with all of them. Merlin be damned, that sounded like a much better time than hiding in the corner booth of a pub with Ron and hoping nobody recognized him.

With a grin, he hustled back to the lift, destined for the Head Auror Floo and a call to Ron.

——————————

“Read the list off to me,” Molly said, stirring a pot that could easily have been done with magic.

Ron sighed, “Table and chairs, shined up. The twins’ cribs. Whatever end tables match the dining table. Anything else?”

“If you find any more rugs, take him some of those, too,” she instructed, sipping a spoonful of sauce with a smack of her lips. “His nursery should have a good, thick rug in it.”

“Got it.” Ron said, and turned for the Floo.

He grabbed a handful of powder and threw it, jumping back in shock when the fireplace coughed it back out.

“Bloody hell,” the fireplace swore.

A face emerged from green flames bearing glasses and an untidy mop of black hair.

“Oh, sorry, Har,” Ron said sheepishly. “I was just on my way out.”

“Oh, well, I won’t take it personally, then,” Harry muttered, a disembodied hand coming up to scrub his eyes. “I was just seeing if you were going to Malfoy’s, too.”

“Oh, yeah. Probably going to make several trips.” Ron looked down at his list. “Got to shrink down a twelve-person table and chairs and take it over. And he gave me a hell of a food shopping list.”

“Oh, good,” Harry said. “I’ll see you there later, then.”

“Yeah,” Ron replied. “Want me to get anything for you at the shoppes?”

“Nah, I’ll stop on my own, but thanks.” The green flames died down to a smolder.

“Right, then” Ron said, addressing his mum with all the sternness of a Muggle astronaut. “Gringotts Lobby.” He saluted as the flames licked up.

Molly rolled her eyes.

————————————————

Draco’s hand slipped, and he slowly set the filet knife down next to the salmon. There was no use deboning fish if he was at risk of deboning himself in the process.

But there were _cribs_ in the room that shared walls with his bedroom and the living room. He’d started walking through it rather than between the bookcases. 

Part of the change in course might have been due to the luxuriously soft rug that was irresistible underfoot. Once he found the right spell to properly clean it, he had every intention of rolling around naked on the thick pile. 

Distractedly, he wondered if having sex with Granger on it would be unseemly. What with the _cribs_ in the same room. He shrugged. She’d probably take the bait.

Those bloody _cribs_ , though. They sat along perpendicular walls, one visible from the living room, the other visible from the foot of his bed. They just sat there. Waiting.

Ron’s other deliveries were much less unnerving, he thought, running fingertips along the glossy table. Simply-designed, sturdy, and enormous. It was utterly perfect, and he sighed deeply. 

The cribs may keep him in a state of mild panic for the rest of his fucking life, but this table was glorious. Part of him kind of wanted to roll around on it, as well. Also possibly have sex on it.

He shook his head, clearing the image of being bent over on that table by unseen hands.

He had fish to prepare, and soup to make, and dinner to serve.

——————————————

Harry rolled his eyes at Onasis’ slowly-passing silhouette. That was his third lap today.

He palmed his mobile and tried to ignore the niggling urge to get up and follow that bobbing blond ponytail down the hall. He had better things to do than meet Onasis in a DMLE loo. Literally anything was a better idea than that.

He hadn’t gotten a chance to tell Ron about the whole loo party thing yet. Ron would find it fascinating. Hermione might, too. If she were going tonight.

_Hey. You going to Malfoy’s tonight?_  
_Ron said he’s going. Not sure who else will._

**No. I just got a TON of reading dumped on me for this Wizengamot meeting. Like, one of those deals where you know they don’t want you to have enough time to actually review it.**

_They haven’t tangled with Hermione FUCKING Granger._

**Damn straight, they haven’t. I still don’t know exactly why I’m involved with this Committee, though.**

_No idea._  
_I’m the Not-Head Auror, and I don’t even know who’s on the fucking Committee._  
_All I know is that it’s about Malfoy drama and his parents’ Azkaban sentence._

**I don’t like it. They gave me a hundred years-worth of Muggle child welfare statutes to review. Like textile factory workday lengths are somehow relevant.**

_Never know when you’ll need a good… something… of… lace?_

**I think I hear a Kneazle up a tree.**

_All I hear is a pussy in need of attention._

**Back to work, Biggus Dickus.**

Harry grinned and got back to work.

——————

“Godric’s goiter,” Harry swore under his breath, as Onasis slipped into the empty lift.

“Potter!” he sang. “I’ve been meaning to catch you for days.”

Harry sighed and pressed the button for the lobby, wishing he’d used the DMLE Apparition point to transport him near a liquor store. He wasn’t sure what kind of booze to bring to Malfoy’s but he figured expensive wine would be a solid choice.

“Yeah,” Harry huffed. “I kind of noticed.” 

He paused to look at the other man. His hair nearly matched the gold of the elevator, and gods below if he wasn’t attractive as all hell. Harry’s cock twitched at the memory of him moaning against the cold tile of the wall. Onasis must have picked up on it, because he tucked his thumbs behind his back, nudging his hips forward as his shoulders leaned back against the lift wall.

“I just wanted to apologize,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Jacob was supposed to be minding the door, and he didn’t warn the rest of us you’d arrived.”

“It’s… fine.” Harry sighed. “I don’t think it’s really for me, you know.”

“Sure,” he relied cooly. “More the wine and dine type, then?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry shrugged. “But I won’t tell anyone about the loo parties. Not my place.”

Onasis closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. “Thank you. You look nice, by the way. The trench coat suits you.”

————————————

Draco plunged under the warm water, eager to get the smell of fish oil and onions off him.

He hadn’t expected a response. Not really. It was a long shot, and he’d wisely hedged against his own popularity.

He sighed and eased himself onto the rough stone ledge at the side of the hot spring. His shoulders were going to be a right mess tomorrow, but for now, they were just tired. He’d spent entirely too much time on the wing catching fish this afternoon.

His back popped, and he grunted at the release as he melted into the warm rock.

A knock reverberated through the outside ward, and he growled softly in annoyance. Potter. An hour late. But present, he thought with a shrug, and allowed him in.

He rolled off the ledge and made for the ladder. Not sure if he was annoyed or elated, he settled on mild trepidation.

————————————

Harry knocked on the door a second time, concern growing. An hour past the invitation time, it should be bustling with noise and activity. Or at least have someone within earshot of the front door.

Maybe he should just go on in? Was it more of a house party than a dinner party? No. The invitation had definitely said “dinner”. And he’d dressed for a dinner party. Nice trousers, new coat, hair… doing its thing.

He raised his hand for a third knock, and the door swung open to reveal a startled, dripping wet Malfoy in a… women’s skirt? A blue and white satin skirt with big flowers on it.

“Potter,” he stated plainly. As if he answered the door during parties in women’s clothing all the time. As if it were ridiculous for Harry to think he should be wearing anything _but_ a satin skirt.

What the hell kind of dinner parties did Draco Malfoy throw? Maybe Onasis’s friends in the loo were the safer option. “Uh… hi,” Harry stammered, more disoriented by the quiet house behind Malfoy than his garb. He’d kind of expected Ron to greet him at the door. He’d said he’d be here.

Was today the right date? He wished he hadn’t left the invitation on his desk.

“You’re-” Malfoy started, but Harry cut him off.

“Oh, sorry.” Harry blurted. “I must have gotten the wrong date. I’ll just bring these back for the party.” 

He held the bottles aloft, and Malfoy’s head cocked, examining the labels. Harry held them still for a moment, sympathizing with the other man’s squint.

“Party?” Malfoy drawled, eyes still trying to read the bottles as Harry lowered them back down.

“The dinner party,” Harry said, hoping Malfoy would fill in the rest. There was obviously something cooking in his kitchen. Harry could smell it. 

“I reiterate, Potter,” Malfoy said, holding out both hands for the bottles. “What party?”

The aroma wafting through the doorway smelled like fish and chips, but chicken noodle soup, and also cornbread dressing. It couldn’t possibly be all those dishes, so it must be something even better. 

“Oh,” Harry huffed, handing the wine bottles over. “I… guess I assumed your invitation was for a dinner party. Ron said he was coming over today.”

In fact, Ron had crossed Malfoy’s wards so many times today, that Harry had stopped keeping track of the bracelet entirely. With a frown, he realized he’d have known the guest list if he had kept an eye on it.

Harry’s mouth watered as he watched Malfoy roll the bottles over for inspection. Maeve’s maxillas, it smelled amazing in there.

“Mm hm,” Malfoy hummed, stepping back and nodding Harry in. “He did. He made multiple trips. But no, I hadn’t planned for a dinner party tonight. Just… dinner.”

“So… not a party?” Harry questioned, stepping into the house. 

Malfoy looked up from the bottles to examine Harry’s coat. Grey eyes flitted from his shoes back up to his hair, and he hummed softly in quiet approval.

“No, I invited you over for dinner,” he said with a shrug. He turned and walked to the kitchen, looking entirely at home in a skirt with a bottle of wine in each hand. Which, Harry supposed, he was.

“Just me?” Harry squeaked, torn between leaving and following his nose to whatever the aroma wafting from the kitchen was. “Why?”

The skirt was distracting as all hell now that it was thoroughly soaked. It clung to Malfoy’s ass in absolutely indecent ways. And Harry could see entirely too much of a very tantalizing package in front, as well.

What would it feel like to slide his hands over that satin as it stuck to Draco’s skin? And what would he do if he felt Harry’s hands on him? He could do that. Technically, he could. But could he stop if he did?

“Mm hm.” Malfoy shrugged. “Granger left your note. I felt it deserved a response.”

“My what?” Harry asked, not remembering asking her to deliver anything to Malfoy.

“About the ‘tart’.” Malfoy bit his lip, but his smirk showed, anyway.

“Oh… right.” Harry stammered, fingers on the belt of his trench coat. “That was… nice.”

He hadn’t planned on actually discussing that night with Malfoy. Ever. In fact, he’d rather discuss literally anything else. He swallowed thickly, trying to chase the memory of the taste of the other man’s come out of his mind. The feel his cock sliding through it. The rightness of melding.

_Fuck_ , he thought, resisting the impulse to adjust his growing erection in his trousers.

Grey eyes assessed him cooly. “You’re on the verge of dithering yet again, Potter,” he warned.

Harry took a deep breath and removed his coat, throwing it over the back of the sofa. It earned him a soft smile from Malfoy.

“Sorry,” he replied. “I just… is this a date?”

He grimaced at his own question, glad Malfoy had turned away. This was the second time he’d asked Malfoy if they were on a date. And it was the second time he desperately wanted to hear the other man tell him _Yes. This is a date. We’re dating._

“It’s just dinner.” Malfoy shrugged and set the bottles on an enormous glossy table. “Make of it what you will. And open the bottle of white while I get dressed.”

————————————

“ _Bouilliabaisse_ ,” Draco enunciated, slowly, carefully.

“Booyl-yuh-bayze,” Potter said, the syllables plopping from his mouth like wet sand.

“Good,” Draco replied with feigned approval. It was like bolstering a twelve year-old student’s confidence. Clap and smile so they don’t go cry in a corner.

Potter had, probably accidentally, brought along spectacularly appropriate libations. A dash of the dry Riesling had perked the soup up perfectly. Potter had watched him with open suspicion. Like he was dosing the tureen with a bottle of Living Death.

He’d expected Potter to approach the soup with trepidation, but he’d tucked right in. He’d even paused to compliment the bowls. Draco hadn’t laid them all out, hesitation getting the better of him.

There was a painted set for all four of them; mug, bowl, salad plate, and dinner plate. His own bowl was a riot of eagle, peacock, and abstract feathers. 

Potter’s set he’d decorated with lightning bolts so distorted they were indistinguishable from tree roots. The lines started out all thick gently curving, tapering down to thin, jagged streaks zipping off in unpredictable directions. Power seeking release.

Potter had complimented the bowls, of course, but hadn’t drawn any conclusions. For the best, Draco thought, scooping up and setting back down a spoonful that contained the head of a trout. Some bits were for flavor, others for consumption.

Potter glanced over at him, taking a rare break from chewing. If Potter continued at this rate, he might well finish off the whole tureen and eat Draco’s bowl, too.

“I’m a little surprised you don’t have any proper wine glasses,” he said, barely getting the words out before he raised his spoon again.

Watching, or rather listening to Potter eat bouillabaisse was turning out to be worth the work of fishing all afternoon. He made the most delightful little chuffs of appreciation when he found a bit of fish or mussel or vegetable he particularly enjoyed.

And the man could eat, Draco had to hand it to him. Even when presented with a stew that was known to turn off the less-adventurous. He apparently enjoyed it enough to ignore the incessant vibrating of his phone. Flattering.

Draco shrugged. “It’s all but impossible to carry a bottle in talons.” He took a bite of soup, almost grudgingly. “I honestly only drink when Pansy shows up for my birthday. And that’s a straight-from-the-bottle occasion.”

“Huh,” Harry said, chewing slowly, his happy little shoulder shimmy reappearing for a mussel. 

Draco made a note of Harry’s preference for clams. Interesting. Unexpected.

Harry stirred his bowl around, and Draco wondered which bits he was hunting for. He hoped it was salmon. Salmon were his favorite to catch. It would be nice if their preferences coincided.

Sudden realization made him gasp shortly through his nose, and he was grateful Potter was noisily slurping up broth. Damnable eagle tendencies. He should _not_ have served Potter fish he’d caught himself. Not for a dinner that was going to end with them in separate beds.

Fucking hell. He was a solid half-bottle of wine in and watching the man he wanted to shag perform what felt like foreplay to him. A flush crept up his neck, and he undid the button at his throat.

Potter picked a shell out of his bowl and inexpertly tongued the mussel meat out. A reedy whine trickled through Draco’s nose, and he gasped in horror.

Additional wine was probably ill-advised on an empty stomach, but it _was_ a rather nice bottle. And Potter didn’t seem interested in drinking it.

Harry looked up slowly and chewed, green gaze wary. “You okay, Malfoy?”

Draco racked his brain for the least-sexy topics of conversation he could muster. Molly. Muffins. Snape. No, too far. Weasleys, though.

“Did you see the furniture Ron dropped off?” Draco ventured, examining dwindling contents of his mug.

“Uhm, yeah,” Potter mumbled around a bite of potato. “We’re eating dinner off it. Or I am. You’re sort of drinking your dinner there.”

“Right,” Draco huffed, biting his lips. “There’s more, though. Furniture.”

“Mm hm,” Harry hummed, finishing the potato off. “I saw the cribs in that side room. What’s the story there? You storing things for Molly so she doesn’t have to pay for an extra vault?”

“Uh…” Draco stammered, hiding behind his mug. “No.”

“So…” Potter led, eyebrows raised in expectation.

Draco swallowed past a lump in his throat. Ron knew everything about the twins. Granger knew about the dreams, at least. How long till they told Potter, anyway?

“I’m pregnant, Harry.” Draco announced, draining his mug. “With Granger’s babies. Twins. It’s all rather unexpected, and we didn’t know how to tell you.”

“I… I…” he stuttered. “What?”

Potter froze, all but dribbling soup from his mouth. Merlin’s tits, the man didn’t think that was a serious possibility, did he? Gods. Dumb, hung, out for come.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Potter,” Draco said, feeling intellectually superior, despite the fact that the room was tilting a touch. “I’m adopting Magnus’s sister’s twins. I think. Probably. Ugh. _Merdasse._ ”

“That’s… not less surprising,” he replied, finally setting his spoon down. “A Rusalka sister or witch sister?”

“Rusalka, obviously,” Draco blurted. “Anybody would adopt Pureblood babies.”

Harry’s face dropped, and Draco wished he could cram the flippant comment up his own ass. He ran a hand down his face in an attempt to squelch related imagery.

“I mean, homes can be found for fully human children,” Draco said carefully. 

Harry dutifully spooned broth between his lips as Draco’s jaw clenched. How much was even safe to tell Potter? Was this man a friend or an Auror?

“Half-Rusalka kids… they’re unheard of and would be lucky to survive infancy. I might have to smuggle them in,” he waggled a finger with a smirk. “But don’t tell the Ministry.”

“I… won’t,” Potter said warily. He reached for the wine, and Draco thought he was going to top off his mug. He simply slid it out of Draco’s reach. “You really _don’t_ drink often, do you?”

“Nnnnope,” Draco popped casually, rubbing his lips together in consideration.

His teeth were numb, and he wanted to bite someone. Or dance. _Numb teeth, quick feet_ , he thought. Definitely tipsy if he was rhyming about it. 

He settled for letting his head roll back and forth on the back of the chair, lips between his teeth. Potter wouldn’t want to dance with him, anyway.

“If I were you, I’d have to get pissed to eat soup, too,” Harry whispered. 

The chant in his head screeched to a painful halt. What the _fuck_ had Potter just said?

“Pardon?” He enunciated with far more venom than was warranted. His head snapped up to glare at Potter.

“I’ve been going through your Pensieve vials for the Wizengamot meeting next week.” Harry scrubbed his mouth with a napkin like he was trying to remove the day’s stubble from his chin. 

“I…” Draco started, no intention of finishing the sentence. At least Molly had given him cake when she pinned him into this corner.

“You got the _shit_ hexed out of you for eating soup too loudly. Repeatedly.” He said it like he was reading fucking Quidditch scores. Just a fact. The sky is blue. Water is wet. Narcissa Malfoy tortured her son for slurping his soup. Grass is green.

“I just…” Draco drawled, shock and vertigo not combining well. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Harry grabbed a piece of bread and nipped at the crust. “I know I said I’d only look at what I needed to.” He mumbled, licking crumbs from his lips. “But it turns out I kind of need to know a lot, because I have no idea what I, or we, are going into.”

“Oh… alright,” Draco whispered. 

Fan-fucking-tastic, he thought. It was a solid argument, he had to admit. And Potter had waited till he had reason. And he had tried to get out of being assigned to his case in the first place. Really, he had done what he could to keep his distance.

Draco wasn’t embarrassed, per se. But it was still uncomfortable as all hell to know what Potter had seen. 

“Between those vials and what Magnus dumped in your head, I guess you probably don’t have much left to learn,” he murmured, blowing a breath out.

He dared to look Potter in the eye, but the man looked like he’d just taken an entire shot of Firewhiskey down the wrong pipe.

“Falk _told_ you?!” Harry belted.

Draco hummed in agreement, finally dipping into his soup. “Showed me more than told me, but yes. Just the memories, not your conversation,” he said, picking out a piece of trout. “Great lumbering eunuch…”

“But then why would he tell me _not_ to look at them around you?” Harry blurted, still blushing furiously.

The few bites of soup he’d eaten hadn’t done much to curtail the wine. His tongue felt suspiciously loose, but also razor-sharp.

“Creative license, knowing him,” Draco muttered. “I’m surprised he showed you where he banished my harp-playing to, or how often I chose the couch over his bed. And I didn’t know he ever found out I hid pornography in a copy of the Illiad.”

Harry stared at him, mouth agape. Pretty little trout, Draco thought.

“That’s not what he said at all!” Harry shouted.

“Mm hmm,” Draco hummed, fully aware he was listing a bit to one side. “Bet he didn’t tell you how much he loves his boring, sexless marriage, either.”

“No way. No fucking way.” Harry scoffed in disbelief. “He showed me… Well, you saw.”

He snorted a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Turns out he fucked like I played Quidditch. Willing to perform admirably upon request, but little independent desire to pick up a broomstick.”

It was Harry’s turn to snort a laugh, but in continued shock. “That’s… sad? I guess?”

Draco shrugged. “Bit like falling in love with my own reflection, I suppose. Exactly what I wanted. Only what I wanted.”

Potter looked at him for too long, and _not_ in a way that made him eager to divest himself from his trousers. Pity. Potter was gazing upon him in pity. Ugh.

“I think your sofa is lonely,” Harry told him, sliding away from the table. “I’m going to tidy up.”

“No, you’re my guest-“ Draco protested.

“I was essentially a house elf till I was eleven,” Harry retorted, cutting him off. “Don’t insult me.”

With a dramatic sigh, Draco sauntered over to the couch and flopped down. His body didn’t want to lay down. Writhe and roil, yes. But lay quietly, no.

His hands were going to cause trouble with nothing better to do, so he picked up his sketchbook, ink, and supplies. Maybe if he just kept the book over his crotch, he wouldn’t scare his date off. Not date. His… Potter… Who looked fucking adorable washing dishes.

He could at least draw him a nice picture as payment. 

And he had the perfect one in mind.

———————————————

A bottle cap Portkey had left a rust stain on the stone next to the sink, and Harry tried to scrub it off with the sponge. It did nothing, and he resorted to a quiet Scourgify. It discolored the granite, and he frowned.

“You go to Azkaban too often,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Malfoy reclined on the sofa facing him, sketchbook and small notebook both in his lap. He kept writing something and crossing it out. 

His gaze kept wandering to linger on Harry, and it was making him nervous. In fact, he’d been staring at him quite a bit since he’d started looking tipsy.

“Yeah, I know,” Draco muttered as he tore off a sheet of paper and waved it dry. “I think I’m about done with them, though.”

Harry dried his hands off on his trousers and adjusted his glasses. What had happened that would make him stop visiting his parents? If Draco didn’t volunteer the information, he didn’t really feel comfortable asking.

“So… last week.” Malfoy drawled, still slurring a little. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Harry whispered, rinsing the last of the dishes. “Me, too. I mean, you warded your door against me, and I didn’t take the hint.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a pen twirling in thought. 

“Potter, the day you take a hint is the day I enroll in Auror training,” he said succinctly.

Harry busied himself drying the dishes. They really were lovely after Malfoy had glazed them. Ron had probably been thrilled at the opportunity to turn a fireplace into a fucking kiln. Seemed very like Ron.

“That morning started with Narcissa throwing her copy of Witch Weekly in my face and crowing about it,” he sighed. His wrist flicked long lines across the paper. “I left after she worked herself up to a Dementor-worthy state.”

Cringing, Harry opted to stay silent. Dementors were only used for escapes or violent outbursts against non-inmates. Which meant that Narcissa had used, or tried to use, magic against Draco.

“And then I found out… or maybe slowly realized that the relationship I’d idealized was actually a one-sided cock-up that never would have lasted,” Malfoy drawled, flicking his pen in punctuation. “And _then_ I kind of started remembering a lot of things I’d forgotten. Or made myself forget.”

Draco took a long breath, pen tapping against the notebook. He’d said it like he was retelling teenage hijinks. “And _then_ the man who originally convinced me I shouldn’t have kids asked me to be a father. A single father, at that.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He had thought that Malfoy not having children had been his own idea. It had made sense the way he told it.

“ _And then_ I spent the evening crying on _Ron_ , who’s a real sport, by the way.” Draco turned the sketchbook in his lap, and his fingers etched quick, rhythmic lines.

Harry gulped loudly, screwed up his courage, and turned around to face the living room. He’d expected Malfoy to be glaring at him during this weirdly candid monologue, but his hand moved quickly over the paper. His left hand, Harry noticed.

“ _And._ _Then._ Harry Fucking Potter showed up to throw rocks at my windows, profess his availability, eye-fuck me, and refuse to make good on _any_ of it.”

Throwing the rocks had been immature, Harry thought regretfully. He’d been so worried that Malfoy thought he was dating Falk that he hadn’t stopped to really think about whether storming his property was the best response.

“I should have just left a note,” Harry admitted. 

He pulled a dining chair up next to the sofa. Malfoy looked up from his sketch. Grey eyes drifted up Harry’s body with excruciating slowness. Harry’s breath came fast under the other man’s scrutiny. 

Harry cleared his throat and leaned to the side to look at the sketchbook. The Ballycastle Stadium, he noted. But just the stadium. No people or Quidditch.

“A note would have sufficed,” Draco said, head falling back on top of the arm of the sofa. “But then Granger wouldn’t have come over, and I wouldn’t have sent her back loaded, and you wouldn’t have sent a note, and I wouldn’t have invited you to dinner, so… _N’importe quoi…_ ” He shrugged, eyes closed.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded nervously. “I guess so. Still. Sorry.”

White-blond hair spread over the deep red velvet of the sofa arm, and Harry fought the urge to reach out and touch it. Malfoy’s grey eyes were still slightly glazed when they opened, but studied him acutely.

“Harry,” he said thickly. “This is the part where you go home. But we both silently wish you didn’t have to. Yeah?”

His gut sank at the shared realization. He really didn’t want to leave. But he really shouldn’t stay.

“Yeah,” he whispered, rising from the chair. “This was… good, though.”

Malfoy hummed in agreement as Harry gathered his trench coat off the sofa next to the other man’s shoulder. Draco tapped his pen against the notebook again.

“I’m going to make boeuf bourguignon with that bottle of red you brought,” he said, thinking. “The night after tomorrow. If you’re feeling peckish.”

Warmth spread through Harry’s chest at the offer. He shrugged his coat on and belted it. He hated leaving, but the promise of being welcomed back made it bearable.

“Yeah, I am,” he blurted, halfway to the door. “I mean, I think I will be.”

“Good,” Draco said, grey eyes peeking over the back of the sofa with a glint. “It’s a date.”

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

All Plucked Up

“Tuneless pratter”,  
I think you called it.  
Last beloved thing I had.  
Hid it in a store room.

Told me I’d gone mad.  
I’m sure it burned to ashes,  
Or you torched it as you saw fit.

DLM 2002 Russia  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	24. Stab Your Auror at Work Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut. Drarry smut. Finally. But barely. And not again for several chapters because plot and character development reasons.
> 
> Draco maybe tells his parents they're poor and stands Lucius down in a would-be duel.  
> They are definitely still awful human beings.  
> Draco maybe accidentally shanks Harry in the Ministry lobby.  
> Draco maybe Heals him, goes home with him, and ends up putting on a dirty little show.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Riotous

Dear _GODS_ , your _FACES_ the night they took you in.  
Some jailers you had been!

“He took a dive.”  
“None could survive.”

Oh, sweet darlings, who’s that cackling up a din?

DLM 2002 Yatusk  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

Last Malfoy Heir Song and Dance, he thought as he buttoned the black shirt and tucked it into trousers. Good riddance.

Last Portkey, he thought, as he dropped it on the way through the Azkaban lobby. Good riddance.

Last security scan. Good riddance.

Last walk down the dank, gloomy hall. Good riddance.

Last nod to the visitation room guards. Good riddance.

Last awkward wait. Good riddance.

“Draco, love. Back so soon,” she crooned as soon as she entered. She even leaned forward to try to kiss his cheeks, which earned her a yank back by a guard.

“Son,” Lucius nodded curtly as he took a seat next to his wife. “How are things?”

He’d rehearsed dozens of ways this conversation could go, but had always known it was pointless to plan. The two of them were masters of diversion and denial.

Best to just cut to the chase.

“Things are… gone. Generally speaking,” he replied, stifling a bitter chuckle. “And this is my last visit.”

Lucius stared at him while Narcissa let out a fake squeak of surprise. Draco rolled his eyes at her theatrics.

“What do you mean _gone_?” Lucius asked slowly.

Narcissa looked at her husband and nodded. “And why is this your last visit? Are you moving? France, darling? You always did love Paris in winter.”

He sighed and hoped Narcissa would stay coherent for a while.

“It’s gone. Everything’s gone. The Manor, the vaults, everything,” Draco recited in careful monotone.

“Impossible,” Lucius scoffed. “Even you couldn’t fail that completely.”

Narcissa nodded again. “Love, I know you’ve never had much of a head for business, but I don’t think you understand how much is being managed without you.”

“Personal vaults, estate vaults, Aunt Bella’s vault. The Manor and every bauble in it, grounds, vineyard,” he started listing assets. 

Lucius’s eyebrows got higher and higher. Draco ticked items off on his fingers as he went.

“The quarries, both stables, the farm land in Wiltshire and Devon, that fishery you always hated, both London townhouses, the Paris townhouse, everything _in_ the townhouses.”

He nodded for emphasis to Narcissa on the townhouses and her face fell. Those had been her favorites.

“The shares in all seven Diagon stores, the pieces at Diagon Arts, the rental properties in Knockturn, the galleons hidden in the walls of the basement of the robe shop in Horizont.”

Narcissa sobbed at the mention of the artwork. That had been the only painful concession for him, as well.

“Did I miss anything?” Draco asked in feigned interest.

“You stupid slut.” Lucius glared at him. “How? Why?!”

“Voluntarily,” Draco replied with a shit-eating grin. He knew it was incredibly dangerous to show any emotion but remorse, but fuck it. “It took me three years to liquidate everything we owned, but the charity sector is positively booming.”

“I… well…” Narcissa stammered. “At least we’re on good footing socially,”

“Oh, no. No, _mother_ ,” he bit. “It was all donated anonymously.”

“But…” she trailed off and stared at her hands, a fine tremor starting.

“You couldn’t have found it all,” Lucius retorted. Draco noticed a light sweat beading on the older man’s forehead, and it made him feel like cackling. And maybe later he would.

“The old mines under the Manor?” Draco said, baiting Lucius. “Odbert _adored_ the contents. So much that he went ahead and took it all home. Did you know he has pet Nifflers? I’m downright beloved at Gringotts anymore.”

“That’s…” Lucius stammered as his face shifted from a flush to an alarmingly deep red. Veins stood out in his forehead that Draco hadn’t gotten to see in a good decade. This could be the first coronary event he watched without intervening, he mused. 

Narcissa sniffled and turned to Lucius. She leaned over to bury her face in his shoulder, but he shoved her off. Her fingers covered her mouth as she wrenched great, heaving sobs into her hands.

“You worthless little _shit_ ,” he fired. _”Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”_

“Leveled the playing field.” Draco nodded, still grinning. “And before you try to impress upon me how your friends will help you, don’t.”

Lucius was silent, but Narcissa was winding up admirably.

“I’ve spent years making sure everyone who ever called you an ally is locked in here for life,” Draco pointed out. “No one off this island would throw you a sock. By contrast, Molly Weasley gave me the Black hearth rug.”

A high-pitched keening leached from Narcissa and made him clench his molars.

 _”I’ll kill that bitch!”_ Narcissa screamed, hands gripping her hair. _” I’ll burn the whole lot of them!”_

“Oh, and I’ve been bedding the Mudblood,” he said with an internal cringe. “But don’t worry, there won’t be any children. Ever. With anyone.” Standing to leave, Draco brushed off his black-on-black trousers and shirt. It was going to be nice to not have to wear them so often.

Narcissa had dissolved into screaming her dead sister’s name in futile summoning as the guards lingered behind her.

“Oh! Except the Rusalka twins I’m adopting,” he preened. “Couple of half-beast bastards by the name of Malfoy. Might name the girl Liore.”

“Fitting legacy, no? _Toujours se souiller_ ,” he hissed, fist raised, opposite hand slapped on his bicep.

 _Too far_ , he thought with a gasp.

Lucius’ eyes glinted and his jaw clenched, and it was all the warning Draco got. He threw himself to the floor as a high-pitched whine filled the room. A streak of blood and saliva landed on the floor behind his prone form and slowly ate through the stone.

His hand groped in his pocket for his knife, and he palmed it before daring to rise above the table again. The guards were watching carefully, but had no idea what had just happened.

Lucius’s eyes drifted down to Draco’s clenched fist and back up to his son’s face. He knew what was hidden in that hand.

His thumb skated across the blade as he slid it back in his pocket. Behind his back, he slicked both hands with blood. Pretending he was smoothing the dark fabric of shirt, he wiped his palms off down the front of his body.

A sick, deep hum started at the cut in his thumb, and he nudged it over the front of him. It crescendoed in a squalid whine and dropped. A ward.

 _Try me._ Draco mouthed.

All those years, he thought. Decades of instruction and torture, and Lucius Malfoy had never once considered that his war horse would buck.

Narcissa had dissolved into wordless screaming. The guards were preoccupied with her histrionics as one of them shuffled her toward the door.

Lucius’ eyes flashed and stared pointedly at Draco. 

_I’ll kill you,_ he mouthed.

 _With what?_ Draco mouthed back, grinning.

He threw his arms out in open invitation, backed out, and let the door close behind him.

One-hundred and sixty-eighth visit. 

He’d always been counting.

Good riddance.

——————————————

_Stopping by Ministry Munchies. Want anything?_

**A scone if they’re not out.  
I’m on my way up.  
See you in a sec.**

_Your scone smells amazing. It was the last one. Better hurry._

Harry smiled as he opened the lift gate. Hermione was lingering in the middle of the lobby with a bag in hand. He was only a little worried she’d actually eat it.

She looked good, he thought as he waited for her to look up. He wondered if her skirt was stretchy enough to pull it up and bend her over his desk. Sharp brown eyes caught him staring and he inhaled an embarrassed yip.

She raised an eyebrow at him and held out the pastry bag.

“How many bites did you take out of it?” he asked playfully. He hoped he sounded playful, anyway. It was hard to not put his arm around her waist, or lean over to smell her hair. They wouldn’t face consequences if he did, but it would be a whole round of Prophet headlines neither of them wanted to deal with.

“None, I’ll have you know,” she retorted and took a cautious sip of her coffee. “I got one on my way in when they were still hot.”

Harry pulled a mocking face as they turned to walk back to the lifts. He was going to owe her for months for helping clean up the mess Ron had made with that damned car.

His ear caught a faint whistle as they walked. Probably a flying memo in a hurry.

A hard impact from behind knocked his shoulder forward, and adrenaline coursed through him.

Searing pain lanced through his upper arm and Hermione screamed his name.

He wheeled, wand brandished.

A dark silhouette with blond hair disappeared under a pile of men in red robes.

——————————————————

He’d been a fucking god when he slid out of the Ministry lobby Floo. High on his own machinations. And now he was but a well-dressed plebeian, thoroughly annoyed at the pace of bureaucracy. 

He had _so_ many things to dump into Pensieve vials for Potter. Robards never got any of the memories regarding Liore, and they were all that was going to keep Lucius and Narcissa behind bars. 

Headline visions danced through his head; _Lucius Malfoy, Convicted Baby-Killer!_

Surprisingly few people had glared at him, but a handful did. But they might have been jealous. God-king walking, after all.

The wards had detected his Trace and shunted him into the parolee line. He had to sigh and admit was appropriate. But Salazar’s scrot, was it a slow-moving line.

And there was coffee just inside the gates. It smelled lovely.

He hadn’t really worked out how he was going to _find_ Potter once he got inside, but he didn’t figure it would be difficult. _Emperor of the Death Eaters to see almost-Head Auror, please. No, I don’t think I need an appointment. He desperately wants to gargle my balls. Yes, I’ll wait._

What he didn’t expect was a glacially-slow line. Just… offensively slow. Especially compared to the other gates, where color-coded robes and tidy business suits were entering and exiting freely.

He’d created a game of watching the employees come and go and making guesses about which departments they worked in. The man with the seersucker suit out of season probably worked with Percy Weasley. The woman in a pumpkin-embroidered corduroy ensemble almost certainly worked in Beings.

The woman in the salaciously tight pinstripe skirt with a rambunctious mess of curls? Secretary looking to fuck her way up the ladder. The woman turned around from the counter, coffee and pastry bag in hand, and his jaw dropped.

 _”GRANGER!”_ he bellowed. If anyone could get him out of this tar pit of a line, it was the Golden Girl. _”HERMIONE!”_

He reached for his Legilimancy and hesitated. There were undoubtedly others here who would notice. Boo. Peasants and their pedantry, but very well.

 _”GRANGER!”_ he tried again.

Either she was accustomed to being heckled in the busy lobby, or she couldn’t hear him. She tapped steadily on her mobile while walking slowly toward the center of the room. 

_Shit_ , he thought. She was so close. Only a few dozen yards away.

She looked up from the screen suddenly and turned her head toward the lifts. With a curt wave, she trotted to meet someone opening the door. 

_Potter._

The parolee line took a single step forward, and he died a little inside. They were so damned close, but they couldn’t hear him at all. 

Everyone in this room needed to shut the fuck up. Important people had world-altering conniving to do. But _one_ of them was stuck in line, while the other two were… walking back toward the lift.

“Shit shit shit,” he whispered. They couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t use magic.

He felt in his pockets, fingers coming to rest on the cool metal of his pen.

In one smooth arc, he drew the pen out, reared back, and whipped it at Potter.

The spinning silver length passed through a beam of sunlight.

He gasped. Light sparked off the blade.

Not his pen.

————————————————

“What knife?” Harry asked incredulously. “Do you _have_ the weapon?”

The guards at the gate weren’t playing along. Harry was almost ready to admit that being Head Auror would be nice right now. He also was almost on the verge of admitting that his shoulder was a blazing, agonizing mess under his robe. Almost.

“I’m taking him into DMLE custody,” Harry announced through teeth gritted against the pain. “He’s here for Wizengamot prep, anyway.”

Draco’s eyes widened in terror at his words. He was still cuffed and being held pressed against a wall by two Aurors with several guards nearby. Harry was trying very hard to ignore how dangerously attractive Malfoy looked with his hands behind his back, shoved against a wall by several men. He blinked and took a deep breath, shaking off the image of his black button-down shirt strained over his chest.

The hush that had initially fallen was slowly growing into a tittering cacophony near the gates. They’d drawn a small crowd, and at least one of them was a fucking reporter.

“When you find the weapon, bring it up to the Head Auror office, and I’ll check it in,” Harry instructed, pulling rank he didn’t have. The reporter scribbled it down too eagerly.

The Aurors marched Draco toward him, and Harry’s gut lurched. He’d gotten used to seeing Malfoy in t-shirts and pajamas. This was his Gala attire, and it brought back a whole lot of rather strong, inappropriate, visceral feelings.

“Uhm, yeah, Auror Potter,” one of the gate guards muttered. “Are you sure you don’t want us to call a Healer down?”

“What for?” Harry responded. 

He’d pocketed the knife, triaged the wound, Tergioed his shirt, and thrown his robe over his shoulder in one swift movement. The fact that this guard noticed meant that others had, as well.

The guard shrugged and the Aurors lost interest. They dispersed, and people began milling around as usual. That damned reporter, however, was circling the room gathering eye witness accounts. Fuck.

“Where’d Granger go?” Malfoy whispered as he was deposited next to Harry, still cuffed.

“She went on down to get Ron’s case sorted. Why?” 

Harry narrowly stopped himself from looping his arm through Malfoy’s. His hand very appropriately gripped the other man’s elbow to lead him to the lift.

“I don’t want her trying to use Legilimency and Obliviations to clean this up,” he whispered, leaning a touch too close for propriety. “She’s good, but this is too many people.”

“Shh…” Harry drawled, smiling as the lift doors opened. “Ears everywhere.”

————————————————

Harry locked his office door and leaned against it. Draco assessed him quietly. He’d used the hand holding the pastry bag, despite the fact that the other hand was empty. That arm didn’t sway in counter-balance as it should when he walked.

“I thought I threw my pen,” he said softly. 

He sniffed, even though he absolutely wasn’t crying. His throat was tight, and he fought the urge to beg Potter’s forgiveness. Tears welled up, but damned if he was going to cry in the DMLE. He was certainly _not_ going to cry in Harry Potter’s office. 

Nope. Nobody who can back Lucius Malfoy down in a Blood Magic standoff would cry in front of a witness.

“Ohh…” Harry groaned softly, tension leaving his face. “I wondered what the fuck possessed you to shank me in the middle of Ministry Headquarters.”

Draco chuffed a weak laugh. “My penchant for the dramatic isn’t _that_ strong.”

Harry sat heavily in his chair. The hand of the struck shoulder moved like dead weight. The blade had sunk into the joint space in the back of his shoulder, Draco remembered. Probably cut the larger of the two major nerves, based on how the hand was laying. Possibly both. An excellent throw if he’d meant to incapacitate. _Merdasse_.

Draco sat down uneasily on the edge of the wooden chair in front of Harry’s desk. The office was as banal as Harry’s apartment, and it was… depressing. He didn’t get the impression criminals were supposed to be in these offices. Or that many people came into Harry’s office to sit and chat.

“You need to see a Healer.” 

Harry looked at him like he’d just meowed the alphabet. “I am seeing a Healer. Aren’t I?”

Draco hesitated, not sure if that was a double-entendre or not.

“A _reputable_ Healer.”

Harry’s shrug lost its effect when only one shoulder rose. “I watched you bring Ron back from the dead. This should be nothing, right?”

Draco scowled. He didn’t want to use Blood Magic in the DMLE. That sounded like a ferociously bad idea. 

He also very much didn’t want a bond with Harry. Or, more accurately, he didn’t want Harry to have that bond with him. Letting Potter read his emotions at any given time sounded like a disaster and a half.

Was it incredibly useful for the Healer to be able to quietly and remotely assess the well-being of their patient? _Of course._

Had his patients being able to peek in on his emotional state without him knowing led to _many_ impromptu birds and bees talks with Durmstrang students? _Also yes._

He sighed heavily, lips pursed. “Blood Magic plus DMLE plus Death Eater equals life sentence. First concern.” He held up a finger for emphasis.

Harry waved him off with his functional hand. “Turns out Robards used it on a regular basis down the hall.”

He awkwardly scooted the scone out and shook the bag off for lack of a second usable hand. Crumbs from the scone tumbled down his shirt, and he made a move to brush them off with the injured hand, but all he accomplished was a slight lean.

Fuck, Draco thought. He’d severed the nerve higher than he’d originally assessed. There was a good chance a Mungo’s-trained Healer would leave Potter with lingering weakness.

“Second concern,” he said, holding up another finger, “Ron told you about the bond?”

Green eyes studied him carefully before he nodded. “Said you were pretty much either scared shitless or ready to fuck a hole through a wall all the time.”

“ _Merde,_ that’s a lovely assessment.” Draco hissed. “I’ll be sure to thank him for sharing it.” So, Ron wasn’t totally wrong. _Flight or fuck_ had worked well enough. No reason to fight when one is rather fuckable and quite enjoys fucking.

“He did say a bunch of other gooey, sentimental things, too. But I didn’t figure you want to hear those,” Harry said with a grin.

Relief coursed through him, but embarrassment burned through in its wake. Ugh, he’d fed a toddler a snack in front of Ron. And made pot pie. And let Molly Weasley groom him like a neglected Kneazle.

What would Potter do with that kind of access? Masturbate furiously, obviously. But he could do a lot more damage than that. “Fine,” Draco groused. “Third… Don’t use it as a weapon. Please.”

“How could I use your own emotions against you as a weapon?” Harry chuckled and nipped at a corner of the scone. “And who would even do that?” 

Draco leveled a flat glare at him. Potter’s innocence would be charming if it weren’t blind ignorance with a bow on top. Evidence of him having survived being at the ass-end of a thousand ass-kickings instead of the mind-end of a thousand mind-fucks.

“Magnus, for one,” he said softly. “It’s very efficient to shut someone down without having to talk to them. Saves time. Less mess.”

“Huh.” Harry perfunctorily licked his fingers clean, trying to hide a scowl. “That’s… unacceptable.”

With a sigh, Draco nodded. Potter seemed to be mulling over something important. Maybe he was actually taking the risk of a bond into consideration. Looking _before_ leaping would be a nice change for him, Draco thought.

“Do I need to worry about more people mysteriously dropping dead in Ballycastle?”

Draco rolled his eyes. Not concerned with having VIP access to the Malfoy Mental Maelstrom, then. 

He pulled his lip under in thought. Maybe Potter’s concern was valid, though. Was Draco slowly realizing Mag had been a less-than-ideal partner? Yes. Was he worried about him becoming a rampaging Dark Wizard? Eh. “No, not without just cause.”

“Alright. I’ll take your word on it.” Harry reached into his pocket and set Draco’s worn little knife in the middle of the desk. 

Draco huffed a surprised laugh and scooped it up. 

Sneaky Auror.

“It hurts like a mother fucker. Can you Heal it here?”

Potter was just sitting there eating a scone like his nervous system wasn’t screaming that a limb had been amputated. 

Sturdy Auror.

Draco grinned and snatched up the knife.

“Strip, Auror.”

————————————————

A soft knock sounded through Harry’s office door, and he cringed. Opening the door would expose a bit of a scene.

Draco’s entire head was submerged in a portable DMLE Pensieve. It was his tenth dive, and the collar of his shirt was soaked with fluid.

Personally, Harry didn’t think that level of immersion was required, but he’d been able to practically _feel_ the other man’s eye-roll though their bond. Bossy Legilimens. 

He’d felt a lot of things through it already, despite telling himself he was only going to peek as needed. For research purposes, of course. 

It had only been an hour since Malfoy had Healed his shoulder. Already, the bond had treated him to breath-stopping boredom, gut-churching despair, and lust like an open furnace door.

How Malfoy was able to keep it all in check, Harry had no idea. Currently, he was in the depths of that despair, which was coming hot and heavy as he unloaded memories of his parents’ discussions of his sister and her death. Justified, Harry thought.

The fly on the wall of every Malfoy family fight was over there molting into a fucking Acromantula. Harry wondered how well this evidence would hold up. Could they charge Lucius based on Draco’s years-old memories?

The person in the hall knocked a second time, more firmly. If he opened the door a crack, they wouldn’t be able to see Malfoy, he reasoned. But he wasn’t sure at what point the other man would pull his head out of the Pensieve. He couldn’t hold his breath all that much longer.

Fuck it, Harry thought. This person wasn’t going away, and it was probably something quick. 

He opened the door to Calix Fucking Onasis’ stupid, gorgeous face yet again. He smiled, showing off perfect teeth and just the right amount of humor in his warm brown eyes.

“What, Cal?” he spat, none too professionally.

“I stopped by to-“

A throat-rattling gasp and trickle of liquid behind Harry made him stop short, and both of them froze.

“To what, Cal?” Harry prompted as he tried to discreetly watch the black silhouette out of the corner of his eye. If he could see Malfoy, so could Onasis, though.

“To, ah, see if you were alright after the… commotion…” he trailed off as Harry felt Malfoy drift up behind him like a dark spector.

Draco cleared his throat from above Harry’s shoulder, and Harry jumped, but recovered quickly.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Malfoy spat. “The Ministry started an in-house fuckboy service? Nice perk.”

“ _Hrónia ke zamánia, malaka…_ ” Onasis oozed. “Took you for dead.”

Malfoy hummed and dropped his chin to Harry’s shoulder. “I keep hearing that.”

Harry’s breath hitched at the intimate position. Liquid dripped down from Draco’s hair, trailed down his temples and jaw, and dampened Harry’s shirt. Malfoy’s breath was calm and even next to his ear, body close, but not pressed against Harry’s backside.

Harry felt for their bond expecting desire, but instead found utter seething rage coming from Draco. He gasped and withdrew from the bond.

Harry’s confusion kept him quiet, despite the urge he had to slam the door to protect… everyone, really. That amount of anger would usually result in hexes and curses.

Onasis eyed them suspiciously and looked more anxious for it.

“We had bets going, you know,” he said offhandedly. “On whether your mutt would give up and let you off the leash.”

“Sorry for your loss,” Draco murmured as he rocked his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

Goosebumps flooded Harry’s arms and raised the hair up the back of his neck.

Onasis’ shell-shock and open intrigue echoed Harry’s feelings too well. Why the fuck was Malfoy radiating cold fury but nuzzling into his neck about it?

“Cal, I think you can leave now,” Draco whispered, not looking up at him. “And I don’t think you need to bother coming back.”

He stopped to glare at Onasis, grey eyes unblinking as the other man shrank in on himself and turned to leave.

Harry clicked the door shut and expected to turn around to find Draco uncomfortably close, but he was halfway across the room on his way back to the Pensieve.

“What the _fuck_ was _that_ about, Malfoy?!” Harry belted.

Whatever it had been, it had gotten him half-hard and far too interested. The anger and intensity were a heady mix, even without any desire coming from Malfoy.

He slid silver wire-frame glasses and a pen out of his pocket and frowned. Long, pale fingers capped a vial and carefully copied down an identification code and date. Harry frowned. That was technically his job.

Black-clad shoulders rose and dropped in a heaving sigh. Harry felt the other man’s fatigue and disdain at the interrogation.

“Short story? Don’t fuck Calix Onasis, Harry,” he said, not looking up from the vials.

Harry nodded, glad he’d passed up the potential opportunity to do so in the loo. “And the long story?”

Malfoy sighed again and set the vials down. His mouth was turned down in a contemplative frown, and Harry wondered if he’d overstepped.

“Well,” Draco huffed as he settled his rear onto the corner of Harry’s desk. His long legs crossed at the ankles, and his arms mirrored them. “Winter break, fifth year, I went to Greece with Ernie’s family. Met Cal, who’s… five or six years older than us. Exciting when you’re young, right?”

Harry nodded dumbly. Like he’d totally hooked up with older men when he was a teenager on holiday in Greece. Or ever. Anywhere.

“Spent time together. Showed us around. Nothing special. Definitely made it known he was available, but… nah,” Malfoy drawled. “So that was what, ’95? Start of ’96?”

Harry nodded more confidently this time. He at least knew what year they’d been in school.

“So, sometime… late ’98? That year is a bit of a blur. But it was cold, even for Russia. And my scrawny 18 year-old self is full of vodka and pills while sitting naked on a 25 year-old Quidditch coach’s lap at a party. And in walks this handsy Greek son of a bitch. And starts talking to me like we’re old friends.”

Harry’s jaw had dropped open, and he shut it with a snap. He’d assumed Falk was a few years older than them, but he’d never thought there was that much of a spread. Gods, that was a bit disturbing.

“Don’t give me that look, Potter,” Malfoy admonished. “Hindsight and all that. And no, I did not indulge like that often. Or don’t now, anyway.”

With a shake of his head to clear the image, which was more disturbing than erotic, Harry wandered back to his desk chair and sat down. Malfoy turned and took his seat back on the wooden chair opposite the desk.

“So anyway, Magnus knew him. Already hated him. They argued in Russian for a while, and I only caught tidbits but Mag lit Cal’s fucking eyes on fire. Metaphorically. Legilimantically. Whatever it was, it was about me,” Draco’s eyes crinkled in a soft smile. “And then Cal’s nose was suddenly broken and Mag was Healing his own knuckles. Then we stopped going to parties in St. Petersburg.”

Harry felt a trickle of sorrow from him at the end of the story and didn’t understand it a bit.

“Uhm… Sounds like a hell of a party,” Harry said, trying to sound casual. “Actually, sounds a lot like what he does in the men’s loo on Friday nights.”

Draco snorted. A full-on snort, and Harry grinned. “Please tell me you saw enough for blackmail.”

Harry nodded and wadded up the empty pastry bag. “Yeah, I’ll show you sometime.”

Malfoy bit his lip to curtail a devious grin. Harry threw the bag in the bin while a cool grey gaze watched him intently. Through the bond, he could feel Malfoy was scrutinizing him, but had little emotion with his attention.

“My shoulder is fine,” he murmured. “I think you can stop staring at me.”

“If you say so, Arse-end Auror,” Malfoy snarked as he pocketed his glasses. “What time is it?”

Ron’s new nickname for him was spreading, apparently. He pulled out his phone to check. “Half-five, why?”

“Ah, bollocks,” Malfoy said with a yawn. “You’re not getting boeuf bourguignon for dinner.”

“Want to sneak out the Head Auror Floo and get takeaway in my flat?” Harry offered nervously. His hesitation was echoed in the bond, and it bolstered him. At least Malfoy was anxious, too.

“Potter, is this a date?” Malfoy asked mockingly.

Harry scrunched his face into its most aristocratic bearing.

“It’s just dinner,” he said, chin high. “Make of it what you will.”

Draco hid a smile behind long fingers and nodded.

—————————————————————

The thin blanket probably wouldn’t be enough, so Harry rummaged through a box of mementos he’d never unpacked. Somewhere in here was a throw Molly had knitted him. 

His mobile was vibrating with a steady stream of incoming text messages, and he rolled his eyes.

He pulled out the bedraggled rectangle of warped red and yellow stripes. It wasn’t pretty, but it had kept him warm in the drafty castle many nights.

Draco had fallen asleep on the couch halfway through _Pirates of the Caribbean_ , but not before declaring that he intended to piss away an unholy amount of galleons on new boots and a sword. And that the main actress was doing a good job of portraying an unsexy Granger.

The garish knitted throw looked ridiculous on top of the posh wanker. Draco was curled on his side, hands clasped under his chin. His lips were softly parted and his lashes fluttered in his sleep.

He had the sudden urge to take a picture, but the motivation behind it was muddled, so he turned and went to bed instead.

———————————

It took Harry several long moments of staring at the blurry ceiling to recall the day’s date, that he had the day off from work, and that there was a Draco Malfoy on his couch. With a luxuriously long yawn and stretch, he congratulated himself on maintaining his composure and not doing anything brazenly stupid last night.

He reached for Malfoy through the bond but felt very little. Surely he hadn’t gone on a walk around Muggle London alone, so he must just be deeply asleep. Harry had noticed the feedback from the bond varied in intensity as Malfoy dozed during the movie.

Fresh towel and mug of tea in hand, he made for the hall bath and the rather nice shower there-in. The door was ajar, but barely. He nudged the door open, but it hit something dense. Something covered in fabric. Something heavy.

He peeked in through the opening to the full-length mirror that leaned in the corner straight to his right. Eventually, he’d get around to putting it on a wall. For now, it just sat there, but it did provide a nearly complete view of the room without having to open the door more than an inch.

The weak morning sun threw a beam of light between his legs that traced across Malfoy’s feet. In the mirror, a pale white silhouette lay on across the floor of the dark room. Harry’s gut flipped as he reached for the bond again. A bare shimmer of vague… resolution?

His shoulder shoved against the door and met a soft, heavy resistance. Panic laced through him like electric shocks.

“Draco!” He shouted, dropping his tea onto the hall carpet as his hand shoved through the tight opening of the door to scrabble for the light switch.

_“Draco!”_

The light flicked on to reveal his lanky, disjointed form. The bond roared to life, and Harry froze as breath-halting terror poured through to match his own.

Malfoy’s eyes sprang open with a gasp, and he looked wildly around the room before squinting at the back of the closed door. The terror in the bond quickly dissolved into profound annoyance.

“Merlin’s bitch tits!” Harry sighed in exasperation. “I thought you were fucking dead. You felt dead. And you certainly looked dead.”

The other man groaned and shut his eyes. Harry breathed deeply and took in the bizarre scene in front of him.

All the navy blue cushions from his couch were laid out on the bathroom floor, the Gryffindor throw and the other blanket were wadded up in the corner.

Sprawled atop the mess like an alabaster Queen of Sheba was a dozing Draco Malfoy in a… in a pair of white lace knickers.

Harry swallowed thickly. Not women’s knickers. These were definitely made to accommodate a man’s body. Not that these weren’t having a little trouble containing him as he swelled.

Draco must have felt him watching, or felt him through the bond, because he cleared his throat demonstrably, despite still having his eyes closed against the light.

“So…” Harry led, hoping Malfoy would pick up and explain this all away.

“Country mouse problems,” he replied flatly.

He inhaled a long, shuddering breath and explained, “Do you know how _loud_ and _bright_ London is at night when you’ve lived your whole life in the countryside?”

“Oh… Sorry,” he mumbled, not sure if his words made it through the gap in the door. “I guess I use magic for that.”

One of Malfoy’s hands had drifted down to skirt the edge of his lace knickers but hesitated at the border. Harry’s cock throbbed, watching the other man’s drowsy indecision. 

Did Malfoy even know Harry could see him in the mirror?

“Maybe some decent curtains, hm?” Draco drawled. “Got hot as fuck in here with the door closed.”

His fingertips slid along the edge of his hardening cock, and Harry watched fine goosebumps trail the other man’s arms.

The lace looked soft, Harry thought. And stretchy. And like it would be slick against his lips, but rip right through with one good-

“Potter,” Draco said firmly. “Unless you object, I’m going to use your bathroom for a piss, shower, and wank… not in that order. Then perhaps join you for tea. But preferably coffee.”

“I…” Harry stammered. “Okay, yeah. I’ll wait.”

He shrugged to himself. He wasn’t in a hurry. No reason he couldn’t eat breakfast and remake his tea before a shower. He turned to walk back to the kitchen.

_“You can watch.”_

Draco’s words slid through the cracked door, lodged themselves uncomfortably in Harry’s throat, melted, trickled down, and pooled in his groin.

_“If you want.”_

Harry bit back a nervous whimper as he turned to look through the crack at the mirror again. Long, elegant fingers delicately stroked an equally long, rosy-tipped cock. Fingertips only, still teasing a bit.

“Do…” Harry swallowed. “Do you _want_ me to?”

A slick pink tongue darted out to wet Draco’s lips, and he smiled.

“Yes.” He shook blond hair back from his face as his lips tightened in thought. “I do want you to watch me, Harry,” he said, voice edging on breathy as his fingers wrapped around his length, his touch still light. “But I won’t know if you don’t.”

“I’m going open my end of the bond when I do. I’ll let you know when. Full disclosure. For your sake.” Draco sighed and laid his head back. Both thumbs hooked the sides of the knickers and slid them down to his knees. He brought his knees up to his outstretched hands and peeled them the rest of the way off. Harry got a good, long glimpse of his arse in the process. “If you want a taste of what sex within a Blood Magic bond is like, you can do the same.”

“I think,” Draco murmured softly. “A lot of things would make more sense to you if you knew…”

Gods below, he was going to watch Draco Malfoy get himself off in a nest of pillows, and nothing had ever looked so fucking erotic. Harry’s pants and trousers pooled around his ankles; mind made up. 

“Three…” Draco whispered, holding three fingers up to the mirror.

Harry frowned, despite the sudden relief of getting his hand around his cock. Three what?

“Two…”

With a gasp, Harry realized Draco was counting down to when he was going to use the Blood Magic bond.

“One…”

Draco’s finger curled down, and he gasped as his back arched. His left hand gripped his cock tight, and his right hand threaded through his hair in a firm grip.

“Fucking _gods below, Potter_ ,” he panted as his stroking started in earnest.

Harry bit his lip and worried about what would happen if he opened the bond, too. If it was as intense as it looked, could he trust himself not to break down the fucking door? To not touch Draco? Gods, he wanted to touch him already.

Worst case scenario… public outcry for him, Azkaban for Draco, and a lifetime of shame. Best case scenario… coming on a towel.

Fuck it. Just a peek would probably be fine, he decided. Open that window, take a look, and slam it shut.

Harry watched Draco, who had slowed, probably feeling Harry’s reluctance in place of desire.

“Three…” he muttered toward the door, not sure if he was expected to do the same.

Draco grinned and released his hair. His hand tightened and his pace increased in anticipation.

“Two…”

A soft moan slipped from Draco’s lips, and his fingers slid in his mouth. He sucked them eagerly, and Harry’s cock throbbed in response.

“One…”

Harry’s free hand gripped the doorframe as he reached for the bond, and _pulled_.

Desperation and need gushed hot and choking through his lungs, and he gasped. His body flushed and ran with goosebumps, and a deep groan shook his chest. 

Draco’s skin hunger roared through him, and he tasted blood as he bit his lip to keep from charging the door. Fucking hell, the man was dying to be touched, and all Harry wanted to do was run hot hands over that flushed milky skin.

His chest lurched forward against the door, and he grimaced. He lifted his left elbow and braced his forearm across the opening. His forehead leaned forward to rest on his forearm, a subtle reminder to stay in the hall.

His cock was so hard, it edged on painful, and he was only lightly stroking it. Clear beads of fluid graced the tip, and he carefully spread them around.

His eyes wanted to clench shut against the overwhelming sensation of their combined hunger, but he couldn’t stop watching Draco move. Fingers slick from his mouth, they made their way down over his hip… further down… and Harry moaned in anticipation.

Draco matched him with an eager whimper as his slick fingers pressed against the wrinkled skin of his entrance. His middle finger slid in first, coaxing him open and wrenching a guttural moan from him.

Harry’s hand tightened around his length, stroking in earnest. Draco was whispering to himself, and Harry found himself chanting, as well.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck…” fell from his lips in time with his cock thrusting forward to meet his hand. 

What he thought, but couldn’t manage to say out loud, was _Fuck yourself… Fuck your ass for me…_

Harry felt pressure building deep in his pelvis and heard Draco hum eagerly in response.

 _“S'il te plaît,”_ Draco whispered as his hips thrust down onto his fingers and back up to meet his hand.

Ebbing waves of building pleasure pushed through the bond every time Draco moved. Harry braced his shoulder against the doorframe and thrust into his hand in time with Draco’s fingers, synching with the flow through the bond.

Draco’s hips stuttered, and he shouted just as pressure and release crashed through the bond. Harry yelled, spilling across his hand as he watched thick white ropes land across Draco’s chest.

The riot of sensation through the bond quieted slowly as they each stilled. Oddly, Harry thought, it was being replaced by an increasing hum of content white noise. And Draco looked like he might be falling asleep.

It was… cute. And after that fucking performance, he deserved a nap.

Harry closed the door softly, redressed, and went to start another pot of tea.

And a pot of coffee.

—————————————————

“Thank Salazar for that mirror, hm?” Draco asked as he blew on a scalding mug of black coffee.

Draco was hedging his bets on how things would play out with Potter. Personally, that had been the best orgasm he’d had in several years. He had to assume the same for Potter, who'd shown unexpected proficiency in using a bond during sex. But would they fall forward or backward off this particular ledge?

“Uhm, yeah.” Harry lifted his mug as he lost the battle against a furious blush.

“I mean, otherwise, you’d have been killed instead of petrified,” Draco said somberly.

“Gotta watch out for those Basilisks,” Harry agreed, grinning into his mug.

Draco nodded to his creased sketch on Harry’s fridge. He’d wondered how long it would take Harry to find it in his trench coat pocket. 

Harry’s cock and “thumbs up” didn’t look any more dignified in India ink than it had on Hermione’s phone, but Draco was rather proud of it. 

“That one’s been the talk of the town for a rather long time, but I have yet to see it.” He set his cup down for emphasis. “Personally, I think it’s a myth.”

“Legendary, not a myth,” Harry retorted, letting the stupid grin spread across his face. “I know several people who’ve seen it in person.”

“Liar,” Draco accused. “The Cock Ness Monster isn’t real.”

Tea shot out Harry’s nose in an undignified snort, followed by less dignified coughing, which culminated in a lengthy string of creative swearing.

Draco sighed and smiled as he watched Harry drown himself in a mug.

Auror _sympa_.  
——————————————

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Numb, Dumb, Full of Cum

Anything… you’d do?  
I just… want you to want me, too.

Anything I say?  
What if I say “Let’s run away?”

Take it all?  
Don’t break my fall.

DLM 1999 Durmstrang Institute  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	25. Wizengaswot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry schemes on a level nobody ever expected.  
> Draco is saved by a familiar Unspeakable while the whole world witnesses his horrific childhood.  
> Hermione and the Supreme Mugglewump are sisters in righteous, red-tape arms.  
> Ron is so full of feels.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************  
Polyjuice Under Betelgeuse

Ticky tack,  
Brik-a-brak,  
Langerhorn in sneak attack.

Stealthy little squibs on boats,  
Aurors pay well for those notes,  
Langerhorn in long red coats.

How bereft the pickings are,  
Sweets shine bright! My guiding star?  
Langerhorn. With lightning scar.

Netted, cell fetid. What law?  
Silhouetted, grinning maw.  
Langerhorn, last face I saw.

Mayhaps,  
Circumstance.  
Aurors never want to dance.

DLM 2003 Azkaban  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
********************************  


_Go, go Power Granger!  
You’ve got like, ten minutes to get in your seat.  
This room is filling up like crazy.  
Earth to Pink Power Granger…  
Why didn’t you tell me you were _on _the Committee?  
Front row seats! High five!  
Hermione!  
Bring me a coffee.  
Bring Malfoy one.  
He looks like shit.  
If that’s where you are.  
Hermione.  
Hermiiiiione._

**WHAT?! I just got all these messages at once! What room? I’ve been wandering the seventh level and can’t find anybody!  
I’m not on the Committee, I’m a bloody intern! **

_Tenth level.  
Weasleys just got here.  
Do not ask Molly if she brought muffins. Bad mood.  
Lots of international robes in here, too._

**Courtroom Ten?! Why are we having a meeting in the Wizengamot Courtroom?!  
I’m in line for the lift, not getting you idiots coffees. Sexist wankers. Pink Ranger, my ass.**

_Run, witch, run!  
Handing out agendas.  
You love agendas._

Harry pocketed his phone and wondered if it had really been the best idea to poke Hermione right before a meeting. Fun, though, he thought as he looked around the room. He was in way too good a mood for the setting. 

Courtroom Ten looked far different from how he remembered it. They’d rearranged the seating into two sections of long wooden benches, not unlike a Muggle church. Minister Shacklebolt sat in the center of a large platform, behind an elaborate podium. He looked thoroughly bored. Or possibly also in need of coffee, Harry surmised.

To the left and right of the front of the room were boxes with dozens of glossy wooden chairs in them. He’d assumed they were meant for juries, but one of them today had placards for the members of the Wizengamot Committee on Wizard Rights. But he’d also assumed that only Wizengamot members were on the committee. He was about ready to be done making assumptions.

 _”Hè, toubib! Souris un peu!”_ a crisp alto voice heckled, followed by a low whistle.

Next to him, Draco huffed in amusement and turned to wave at Fleur. She walked arm in arm with a tall, rather handsome older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick beard. Thumb to her chin, she nodded to Draco, who responded by freezing dead still. Harry watched him with concern as his grey eyes flicked up and down the man’s blue and silver robes.

“You know that guy?” Harry asked warily.

“No,” he muttered as he turned back around. “But he’s from the Asklepion of Kos.”

“Oh,” Harry sighed, glad he could relax a touch. “Nice robes. The red and silver ones over there in the corner are probably my favorite-“

“ _What?_ ” Malfoy hissed as he spun around in his chair to survey the room. “Fuck me running.”

“Uhm…” Harry stammered, not sure what the expression or the robes meant.

“They sent a bloody Seer from Delphi,” Malfoy mumbled around the cuticle he was nibbling. “Who the fuck asked for that? You?”

“I’d have to know what it is to send for it, so no,” Harry retorted, not at all thrilled at being accused of… something.

Draco faced forward and slid down in his chair. His fingers tented over his mouth and nose like he was trying to slow his breathing. Harry tested the lingering bond they still shared, and found the other man pants-shittingly terrified.

“They’re like the Guild for Seers,” Malfoy said in measured monotone. “Met one that time I was in Greece. Creepy bastards.”

Harry examined the petite woman in the red and silver robes. Her black hair shone in the soft light as she smiled up at the man releasing Fleur’s arm. She didn’t look creepy at all. The man patted Fleur on the head as she left to sit with the mob of Weasleys.

Something landed in his left eye, and he reached up to rub it. Malfoy startled and whipped his head around. Harry followed his gaze to see Falk taking a seat. Draco scowled at Falk, and Harry wondered if they were communicating with each other.

A head of sleek silver hair next to Falk caught his eye. Harry’s arm shot up in an enthusiastic wave, not at all concerned that he looked like a child flagging down an ice cream truck. Connie slid onto the bench next to Falk and waved back to Harry. 

She brandished a shiny badge that read _PRESS_ , and he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Everything about this meeting felt off in a greasy, underhanded way, but Connie wouldn’t let the Ministry off the hook. After the fact, at last.

He settled back in his chair and slid the agenda over to Malfoy, who didn’t look like he was reading it. Didn’t look like he was capable of doing much of anything, Harry thought.

———————————————

Draco didn’t bother rubbing his eye. He knew it wouldn’t help. It was always faster to confront the source.

And the source was easing its towering, tragically underdressed self between wooden benches to sit between a silver fox of a woman with a press pass and an absolutely jubilant old man dressed like an Arthur Weasley impersonator. 

Magnus had really gone all out in a Bats-emblazoned Muggle polo shirt and tan trousers. The rest of the room was in skirts and ties. 

The man next to him must have asked him about Quidditch, because he deigned fit to respond with some measure of visible enthusiasm. Luckily, Magnus could generally hold multiple conversations.

_**Mag, why are you-** _

_WHAT’S AN UNSPEAKABLE, ÄISLKING?_

_**What? They’re wizards. Or witches. They do research on the level above us. Secretive shit. Why? And who’s your admirer? Bit old for you.** _

_MENTOR METAXAS. CHAIR OF THE INTERNATIONAL CONFEDERATION OF WIZARDS QUIDDITCH COMMITTEE._

_**Elderly Quidditch fanboys. Hot. Why did you ask about Unspeakables? They’re spookier than Delphi Seers.** _

_THERE’S ONE IN THE CORNER TO YOUR RIGHT. NOBODY CAN SEE HER._

_**Her?** _

_SHE AND I ARE DISCUSSING THE BEAUTY STANDARDS OF RIVER TROLLS._

Draco blinked and shook his head at Magnus, who was still talking to the ICW Quidditch aficionado. Metaxas, Draco reminded himself. He turned around to stare at the empty corner of the room. There was a bit of a grey shimmer if he looked at it askance. Bloody unsettling.

_**I forgot how disturbing your ability to hold multiple-** _

_NIGHTMARE BITCH QUEEN AND HER CONSORT ARE HERE._

_**Oh, great. Just who I wanted to see. This isn’t a meeting anymore, is it?** _

_YOUR MINISTER AND WIZENGAMOT ARE THINKING “TRIAL”._

_**Please stop rummaging around in the heads of the most powerful people in the world.** _

_THEY’RE NOT EVEN THE MOST POWERFUL ONES IN THE ROOM. SHE’S SITTING THREE ROWS BEHIND YOU. POPPING BUBBLE WRAP ON HER PHONE._

Draco turned over his other shoulder to scan the crowd. A head of glossy white ringlets was focused intently on something hidden in a pile of fabric. Quick, nut brown fingers flicked over the screen, stark against the white robes wadded on her lap.

_SUPREME MUGWUMP COEHLO. HER NEPHEW SHOWS SOME PROMISE ON THE FIELD._

_**You know too many people through bloody Quidditch.** _

_TO EACH HIS BROOMSTICK, ÄISLKING.  
TELL POTTER HE FUNDED THE BATS STADIUM WITH HIS DIGNITY. THE HEAD AUROR BOX WILL SURPASS THE MINISTER’S._

With a sigh, Draco looked from the preoccupied Supreme Mugwump to Falk and pinned him with a solid scowl. 

Ron caught his eye and waved from the sea of gingers. He should have known Molly would bring the whole Burrow.

—————————————

Ron’s hand froze as he waved at Malfoy. The Wizengamot’s Chief Warlock was staring right at him as he settled in at a short podium below the level of the Minister’s. Staring right through Ron. Straight into the Wheeze’s basement.

He dropped his hand and watched Malfoy turn around as the Chief Warlock cleared his throat. The crowd had gotten a little carried away in greetings and catching up. Bit of a who’s who in the Wizarding world. Except for the antisocial woman in front of him playing a game on her phone.

“Why did you wave to Samuel Codger?” his mum hissed. 

Ron snorted a laugh and several people turned to look. A wizard across the aisle in a white button-down, bolo tie, jeans, and leather boots gave him a long appraisal. It wasn’t the first time he’d been on the other end of the man’s dark gaze. Nosy cowboy-looking weirdo.

“I wasn’t waving at the Chief Warlock, mum,” Ron whispered back. “But his name is seriously Codger?”

The Chief Warlock banged the gavel again, face scrunched up a thoroughly sour mood. Bloke didn’t look like he’d eaten a lemon so much as peeled one and shoved it up is arse whole, Ron thought.

The woman in front of Ron finally put her phone away and looked up. Her hair reminded him of Hermione’s, and he wondered if that’s what hers would look like in thirty years or so.

Curls in mind, he looked around to find his favorite Harpy. She was holding up a copy of the meeting agenda. Holding it up and gesturing rather violently to Harry. It was difficult to tell what she was mouthing, but there was a definite pattern of _What the fuck_ to her lips.

Harry, for his part, looked to be shrugging it off while Malfoy stared blankly at a corner of the room. Odd spat.

Codger’s tone was as acidic as that lemon he’d keistered. “Shall we begin, then? I anticipate this will take much longer than we had planned.”

The Wizengamot members in both boxes shifted uncomfortably. Some of them wore their formal burgundy robes and hats. Some just the robes. One particularly suave gentleman wore just the puffy tri-corner hat with a tuxedo.

Codger continued, spitting as much as he was speaking. “And I would like to extend a welcome to our very unexpected guests from the international wizarding community.”

The woman with the curls in front of Ron stood up and hastily threw a white robe over herself. Codger hesitated in his remarks as if waiting for her to interrupt.

Her voice rang out in the quiet room, with an accent that reminded him of pub teles and Muggle football commentators. He watched Hermione’s eyes widen and her expression shift from shock to quiet hero worship as the woman spoke. 

“The International Confederation of Wizards is in attendance and would like to be recorded as such,” she said with a nod to a woman with a press pass.

Ron huffed in surprise. Magnus Falk was on the other side of the journalist. Interesting crowd.

“Yes, yes. The presence of the Supreme Mugwump has been noted. Thank you.”

The striking couple Fleur had entered with stood, red and blue robes a jarring contrast though they both shone with silver.

The small woman spoke first, “The Bārû of Delphi, if it please.” She inclined her head respectfully, hands clasped. Dark hair fell to cover her face, and she retook her seat.

The man next to her stood and smoothed his beard. Ron ran a hand down his own in solidarity.

“The Asklepiad of Kos, as well,” he said, in an accent identical to Fleur’s.

Ron turned over his opposite shoulder to shoot her a questioning look. She raised her eyes to the ceiling in thought. “My mother’s… second-cousin?” Fleur said with a squint. “Yes. He is… like the Minister of Healers?”

He looked at Molly next to him to see if this was news to her, but she was glaring at a side door between the front wall of the room and the box Hermione was sitting in. There was an identical door in the opposite corner, but a weird haze kept him from being able to focus on it. Malfoy seemed to be dividing his time between looking at both doors, as well.

“Well, then. If we’re through with introductions, we can move along.” Codger’s pinched tone grated like asphalt. 

He beckoned a guard seated a few chairs away from Hermione. The man sprung up and disappeared through the door in the corner.

He returned with two wooden chairs and… a Dementor.

——————————————

Of all the breakfasts he’d skipped in his life, Draco was most grateful to not have eaten today. Not that Potter hadn’t tried to feed him, but even coffee hadn’t smelled good.

The quiet room had gone utterly silent. Two more guards led Narcissa and Lucius in and seated them in the chairs with a deafening clatter of chains. The Dementor drifted in an unseen wind between them. Its hood turned toward Draco, and he froze as panic inched up his throat.

“Breathe,” a voice whispered next to him. Potter. 

Someone at Azkaban had seen fit to dress them for court, and it was eerie to see them in formal robes. Lucius stared at him as if to judge whether or not he could spit a blood curse that far. Narcissa’s eyes busily scanned the crowd for friendly faces. Finding none, she turned to the Wizengamot.

His gut churned as she was met by terse smiles and nods from quite a few Wizengamot members. Ones her own age. Mostly women, but a few men. Entirely too many faces met her with subdued sympathy. 

Unshed tears blurred his vision, and he dabbed at his eyes with a cuff. It didn’t help, nor did it come away damp. He blinked quickly, trying to focus his eyes on Narcissa’s silent rallying cry.

Poor Narcissa, with her over-controlling husband and her out-of-control son. A noble Black by birth, the dear.

“Breathe or I will _make_ you breath, Draco.” A hand clamped down on his forearm, and he gasped. His vision remained foggy, though.

“Sorry,” he exhaled. He slipped his hand in his pocket for his glasses. A sudden need for them had never happened before.

_ÄISLKING, THE UNSPEAKABLE IS IN FRONT OF YOU._

A hot flush of panic ran up his neck, followed by a cold sweat and goosebumps. Harry was perfectly visible to one side, and the rest of the room to the other. The Unspeakable was obfuscating his view of everything in front of him as it… she… stood directly in front of the table he and Harry shared. Eerie.

The door the Unspeakable had been guarding opened, and Harry waved an assistant in. The man was followed by another assistant. And another. And another. 

They all pushed carts of Pensieve vials, which clinked delicately across the front of the room like demonic sprites. The last cart rumbled in and shook the vials anew. Its base was a gargantuan silver bowl, and above it a mirror the size of the Manor formal table. Like a vanity one could sit down at and see one’s memories writ large. 

A great seat to relive glory days. An absolute horror to reveal gory days.

“Harry?” he croaked.

The items were blurry through the lingering Unspeakable, but it didn’t matter. He knew what was in every vial. He’d lived it, relived it, stored it, and continued remembering it. Most of the worst moments of his life were in those vials. 

They were the bringers of nightmares and cold sweats. The poison that made him want to eat too little and drink too much. The fuel that made his pens move while his hands still shook.

“You don’t have to watch,” Harry whispered, hand still on his forearm.

“I don’t need to watch,” he said with a bitter smile. “But is this… normal?”

It was Harry’s turn for a rueful grin. “Is a secret trial normal? More normal than you’d think. Is an Auror hijacking a secret trial and turning it into a big international cock-up normal? Nah. Probably not.”

Draco took a breath to ask Potter what on earth he meant, but Codger got his attention first.

“Auror Potter, in the interest of time, would you please present your evidence for the DMLE’s case against Lucius Malfoy? Everyone, please make note of the slight departure from the printed agenda. And then we’ll move on to reviewing Ms. Granger’s assessment and recommendations, as well as Auror Potter’s supporting evidence for Statute amendment.”

The room spun, and Draco swallowed thickly. All of these people were going to see everything. They were going to see the fights about Liore. The hexes. The curses.

Merlin’s manhood, the most powerful people in his world were going to see him Crucioed and sobbing on marble floors. Bleeding into rugs. Hexed up against walls. Marked. Used.

“Breathe, Draco,” Harry whispered as he squeezed Draco’s forearm again. He hadn’t let go from earlier, but Draco hadn’t noticed. “I know you and Robards never intended for an audience. Neither did I. If you want me to, I can pull the evidence and postpone.”

“No,” he said much more solidly than he felt it. “Let them see. Nothing changes if they don’t see.”

His breath shuddered out as Harry handed a list off to an assistant. It would be fine. Eventually, it would be fine. He didn’t have to look at anyone. He couldn’t see the Minister or Chief Warlock right in front of him, anyway. If he leaned forward, the Unspeakable blurred out the Committee and Wizengamot members seated in the boxes on either side, too. He could just rest his elbows on the table and let the Unspeakable fog his vision. A dignified way to hide.

The startled gasps and sobs from behind him would be what pushed him over the edge, he expected. But maybe they’d leave. Potter had admitted to vomiting when he saw the contents of those vials, and he’d had a comparably terrible upbringing. 

How long would this crowd sit here and watch? How long _could_ they?

A blurry pink shape drifted down in front of him and derailed his anxious pondering. It settled in front of him with a gentle tumble.

A paper crane.

_ÄISLKING, DON’T SCREAM._

_**Why would I-** _

Fingernails trailed up both sides of his neck into his hair, and he froze. The hands slid down to grip the tops of his shoulders.

With a pop, he was gone.

——————————————

Seeing a paper crane drift down out of nowhere had startled Harry plenty, even before Malfoy disappeared. He wasn’t proud of the squawk he’d let out.

The note had satisfied Codger and the Minister, at least:

_He has no need to see his nightmares while awake and will return when needed._  
_-Department of Mysteries_

Harry smoothed out the creases in the pink paper with a thumbnail. Was he supposed to let the Unspeakable know when they needed Malfoy back?

Codger cleared his throat loudly, and Harry realized the man had been trying to get his attention for several moments.

“Auror Potter, you may begin presenting evidence to support the charge of murder.” Codger motioned to the enormous Pensieve and vials.

“Oh, right. I’d like to call Molly Weasley to the stand first,” he announced.

Narcissa’s dark gaze scraped over the crowd and stopped to bore into him. He shuddered, but stood to walk Molly the rest of the way up to the podium.

Molly patted him on the arm to dismiss him as she tapped the tip of her wand against her voice box. “Yes, well. My name is Molly Lucretia Prewett. Narcissa Malfoy and I were quite close friends through her pregnancy with her first child, Liore-”

A piercing shriek cut her off, and the Dementor drifted in front of Narcissa. Shouting erupted from the crowd as the screaming crested and died back down.

The Unspeakable was right. Draco didn’t need to be here for this.

———————————————

“Did I just drop dead in a courtroom?” Draco asked the blur in front of him. 

It was like trying to interpret sight through damaged nerves, he thought. His eyes could see her form, but his mind couldn’t piece it together.

“No, but you are near the Veil,” a woman’s voice replied. The timbre of the voice was high and low, like someone singing from their chest while whistling through their nose. The bouncy cadence was soothing, at least.

“Ninth level, then?” he confirmed.

Why he’d expected a blur to nod, he didn’t know. It just shimmered there. Not unlike the early eaglets in his dreams, he thought. Before they’d found forms. A plenipotentiary of people. Cornucopia of corporeal forms.

“Hall of Prophecies,” she intoned.

Patonus-white light shot up from her to spread along the ceiling. Thousands of orbs reflected it back in varying degrees. Some were so dusty they sat like rocks. Others so perfectly shined they appeared to glow in resonance.

“Does this have something to do with the representative the Bārû of Delphi sent?” he asked. That red and silver robe had thrown him for more of a loop than he wanted to admit. His first and only interaction with one in Greece was far more than a teenage mind could handle.

“Not precisely,” the voice replied thoughtfully. “That _is_ the Bārû, not a representative.” Draco hugged himself and tucked his hands in his underarms. Best to keep the panic sweat localized, he thought wryly.

“Why is the Bārû herself here?” he said as he reached out to wipe dust off the corner of the nearest shelf. He inspected the dust on his finger and wiped it on his sleeve with a shrug.

“Oh,” the voice said with a conspiratorial edge, “she likes to keep the Asklepiad company. They are _quite_ close. And she’s coming here tomorrow to exchange Prophecies with us.”

He let a small smile peek through. The Unspeakable was clearly enthusiastic about her work, and it was oddly charming. And she appreciated gossip, as well.

“But why is the Asklepiad himself here, too?” he inquired. He knew what answer he hoped for.

“The two of them have been discussing you for a rather long time, Mr. Malfoy,” she chirped back. There was a faint sarcastic tilt to the way she said his name.

He sighed, a touch frustrated. She wasn’t going to give him any straight answers about anything relevant. How very appropriate for a conversation in the Hall of Prophecies.

“I assume you brought me here for a reason,” he hazarded.

“I did,” she said cautiously. Several orbs burst with sudden light and simmered down to each glow uniquely. Glaringly bright cerulean, ominously dark vermillion, a sickly churching chartreuse.

“I…” he sighed, “very much don’t want to.”

Salazar’s sphincter, was it an understatement. His dreams were bad enough. How horrible would Prophecies intended for him be? Given his life so far, did he want to know what kind of chaos was still in front of him?

He thought she was going to just let him sit in terrified silence, but a long, flat white box with a red ribbon slid out of the blur and settled on a shelf. A whiff of chocolate made his mouth water.

——————————————

Ron blew his nose in his sleeve for the eighth time. The first four times, he’d been embarrassed about it, but nobody gave a fuck at this point.

His mum’s statements had been curt and factual. She knew Narcissa through the pregnancy. Held the baby the day after she was born. Yes, the child appeared to be in good health. No, she wasn’t a Healer, but she was a mother several times over at that point. Yes, she’d brought along a gift for the child. A blanket she’d knitted.

Her testimonial had been sad, Ron thought, but nothing compared to the technicolor horror they’d been watching on the Pensieve mirror. Whoever had designed that contraption deserved an award and permanent imprisonment. Nobody’s memories should be shared with a room full of strangers like this.

He’d had to look away several times, and this time Molly caught his eye while doing the same. Neither of them needed to see Draco Malfoy drowned in a fountain again. Bubbles floated up to meet a moonlit surface, and the mirror went black.

“Mum,” he croaked. “Did you know?”

She shook her head, but not convincingly.

“Not…” she sniffed. “Merlin, Ron, not like this.”

———————————————

“Candy from strangers?” Draco teased. He was met with silence and insistently-glowing orbs. The blur narrowed. Turning sideways, perhaps?

“Take off your glamour,” he suggested with a bit of a smirk.

Silence again. He untied the ribbon and lifted the lid off. Eight immaculate truffles greeted him. Coffee beans decorated the tops of two. Sea salt on another two. Shimmery gold streaks on another two. The last two wore streaks of white chocolate that gave him a flicker of an obscene idea. He brushed _that_ off. Some things were sacred, and truffles were certainly one of them.

“Do I know you?” His fingers traced over the tops of the confections and settled on an espresso one. The blur snapped forward and slid the box out from under his fingertips.

“Prophecies first,” she chided.

“Fine,” he sighed.

The nearest one reminded him of the crystal ball in his bedroom wall. Swirling sky blue and white streaks chased each other under the glass as he wrapped his fingers around it.

His breath hissed in as images flooded his mind.

———————————————

Harry wasn’t sure whether he was glad he’d already seen these memories or not. On one hand, he wasn’t surprised when Draco spit his teeth out in a sink. On the other hand, he’d known it was coming when the memory started with Draco’s hands holding a peacock egg.

There was little to be gained from paying attention a second time, he figured, and he let his mind wander off the images on the mirror. The crowd provided little welcome distraction other than the occasional opening and shutting of the door.

Fleur had left in a sparking rage after the first few vials. Percy had left shortly after. Several of the Wizengamot members had slunk out the door next to their box.

Hermione sat ramrod straight, eyes boring a hole in the mirror. Tears streamed down her face over her clenched jaw.

Everyone around her looked away.

—————————————————

_His hand held a child’s broom, and a blue and silver robe was draped over his forearm. The robe was smudged with dirt and he was thoroughly annoyed._

_A Quidditch field spread out in front of him, and it roused little beyond apathy. Magnus trotted up to him from the sideline, his typical serious scowl in place. Age had softened the line of his eyes, and silver hair crept up his temples._

_Draco watched as Magnus accepted the broom from him. His eye itched, and a blur of dark brown hair ran between them, snatched the broom, and kicked off into the air in a running leap. Magnus watched the figure gain height with open pride._

The orb dimmed, and he set it back on the shelf as he blinked rapidly. The blur that was the Unspeakable was difficult to find once he’d lost sight of her. With a scrape, the box of truffles scooted along the shelf back to him, and he took the espresso one he’d intended to steal.

He nipped the bottom off and went to work. Filling thoroughly licked out, he paused.

“That wasn’t really a Prophecy,” he criticized. “It wasn’t any different than one of my dreams.”

The blur changed shape briefly, and he wondered if she’d bent over to pick something up. “Perhaps your dreams are more Prophetic than you give them credit for.”

He shrugged and tossed the shell of chocolate in his mouth to melt while she brought the ominous blood-red orb toward him. It glowed with a sickly muted light.

He resolved to see if he could get away with two truffles the next time.

Static sparks crackled under the glass where he touched it, and he took a deep breath.

_Hermione sat on his sofa with a book and a glass of wine. The red velvet was worn off the armrests and the edges of the cushions. Her curls were streaked with a hefty amount of silver strands._

_A teenage girl with wavy black hair and electric golden-green eyes rimmed in purple liner passed between the sofa and the fireplace. Hermione’s head snapped up and called her back. She gestured disapprovingly to the girl’s miniskirt and boots. The girl stomped and huffed at Hermione, then turned a beseeching gaze to him. His hands came up in an uninvolved shrug and Hermione rolled her eyes at him._

Frowning, he set the orb down and snuck both the sea salt truffles. He popped one in his mouth whole and tucked it in his cheek.

“These are incredibly boring, Ms. Unspeakable, ma’am,” he ventured.

She _giggled_. “I didn’t choose them.”

Chomping indelicately through the first truffle, he swallowed. Hunger gnawed at him, but wolfing down an innocent box of chocolates simply wasn’t done. Or wise.

He set the other truffle between his teeth and got the intense impression she was enjoying watching him eat them. Suspicious.

The next closest orb was a dusty, knobby, chartreuse monstrosity. An ogre booger in glass, he thought. It didn’t react to his touch as he rolled it in his hands.

“That one’s quite old,” she chirped. “Those can be rather vague and unsettling.”

Truffles consumed, he nodded and let the images come.

————————————————

“HOW CAN YOU DISMISS THIS?! HOW?! I HOPE SOMEONE BUGGERS YOU WITH YOUR OWN WAND, YOU COWARDLY SHIT MONGER!” screamed the Brightest Witch of Her Age.

Hermione’s meeting agenda was a fluttering singed mess as it dropped onto her skirt, but she didn’t notice. She was entirely too busy screaming obscenities at the Minister for Magic and Chief Warlock. Tomorrow, she could worry about the unprofessional nature of it all, but for now, she was just one of the many people yelling.

The Supreme Mugwump had given into an apoplectic rage and was hurtling profanities in Portuguese. When she lost her voice, she reared back and whipped her mobile at Shacklebolt, but missed by a rather wide margin.

Passion over professionalism, Hermione thought. Rather appropriate right now.

Shacklebolt slowly rose to stand behind his podium and raised his wand. Rather than quiet the crowd, most of them went for their own wands, as well.

He cast a Muffliato with entirely too much force, and Hermione thought she’d gone deaf. 

“The charges are being dismissed due to the lack of Statues by which we would consider them crimes.” Shacklebolt condescended as he tugged his robes down into place and continued. “The instituting of entirely new Statues is not something done on a whim, despite the tireless research done by Miss Granger.”

He nodded in her direction, and her mobile in her purse begged to collide with his smug face. Codger rose as Shacklebolt stood, and she considered throwing her shoes at him. Flats were a poor choice for retribution, though.

“As mentioned before, Lucius will be held while a case is assembled against him. Auror Potter, you’ll be overseeing, of course.” Harry nodded casually. He hadn’t reacted hardly at all. In fact, she thought, he’d looked absolutely blasé through the whole ordeal. The man was getting too accustomed to macabre horror and administrative fuck-overs, she suspected.

“Thank you, Potter. Our last small item, which is not on the agenda, is the sentence revision of Narcissa Malfoy, given her position as both a prime witness and potential plaintiff in the case against her husband.” A woman from the Wizengamot box across from Hermione stood, paper in hand. She was one who’d delivered a simpering smile to Narcissa before she’d been hauled out with the Dementor. 

Lucius had been escorted out after the first few memories. Several very nice hexes slipped past the guards as Draco’s memories played, and Codger had announced Lucius was being removed for his own safety. Pity, she’d thought. She should have gotten a stinging hex in while she could.

“Yes, thank you, Chief Warlock Codger,” the woman said snidely. “We’ve determined it would be in the best interest of Narcissa and this case moving forward if her release date were moved to October 15th this year. Two weeks should be enough to accommodate her release.”

Hermione’s breakfast in her throat rose as her heart sank and the crowd erupted in screaming again. Her mobile was in her hand and sailing across the room before she knew she’d picked it up.

Passion over professionalism, bitch.

———————————————

_The edges of his hearth were worn round and smooth by hands and years. A fire crackled merrily and illuminated the hearth rug. It was different, and much larger. He got the impression that the rug had expanded to suit its own needs. Or perhaps it was a different rug entirely._

_Black vines ran all about the rug, indiscriminate of rhyme, reason, or border. His tattoo, he realized with a start. A hearth rug with his own chosen mark._

_The red background glowed ominously, even softened by dozens, maybe hundreds, of white and silver roses. Enormous white blooms hovered protectively over tiny silver buds. As he watched, petals dropped and sprouted into curling masses of new vines._

_The only section of the rug not in motion was a corner with four roots which tangled together into a trunk. They merged and shot out in four directions, each looping its own graceful path._

_A ferocious kind of beauty, he thought._

The Unspeakable was watching him this time. He was sure of it. The candy nudged toward him as a reminder.

“You weren’t wrong, I’ll give you that, O Mighty Unspeakable,” he said with a nod. It felt like she was smiling at him, even though she was just a blur. A happy blur, he somehow knew.

Ron’s question from weeks ago about what happens when a Seer bleeds on a hearth rug came back to him. Maybe that was what happened? Would the Black rug turn into… that? And when? That hearth looked positively ancient. But still lit.

“I think that deserves at least four truffles,” he recommended as his fingers plucked both the white-streaked ones out of the box.

“So greedy,” she chastised. “One more Prophecy, and you can take the box back with you.”

Disappointment leaked through at her words, and was driven home by… marshmallow? Who the fuck put marshmallow inside truffles? Was nothing in this world holy?

He hesitated, then thought better of criticizing a gift from an Unspeakable while standing in the Hall of Prophecy. The second truffle disappeared quickly as he chewed, swallowed, and pretended it was caramel.

“Okay.” Draco said thickly, eager to get the marshmallow out of his teeth.

A new orb materialized from the center of her formless shape. It was a perfect, smooth sphere made of new glass. The colors swirling through it were mostly white and brown, but rosettes of red bloomed under his fingertips as he accepted it.

Despite looking fairly new, it was absolutely covered in sticky fingerprints. He looked to the Unspeakable for an explanation.

“It’s one of my favorites,” she replied. Coyly, he thought.

“It’s yours?” He inquired. “Or mine?”

“Ours.”

———————————————

Ron was in love. In love, or maybe in severe like and experiencing considerable indigestion.

Hermione, _his_ Hermione, and the Supreme Mugwump had descended upon Shacklebolt and Codger like a pair of vengeful harpies. Harry’s friend with the press pass was next to them recording everything.

The Supreme Mugwump was literally levitating with rage, which Ron hadn’t thought was a real thing. Hermione was highlighting lines in a pile of papers, which the Supreme Mugwump was copying down onto forms. The forms were glittery gold ordeals that disappeared as soon as she threw them in the air.

The cowboy wizard occasionally drifted up to the Supreme Mugwump and offered to help her with things. She spoke to him kindly, so Ron figured they must know each other.

“Mum, what are they doing, exactly?” Ron finally leaned over to ask. His mum had been following the proceedings with a level of attention that only the informed could maintain.

“The Ministry and the Wizengamot are being absolutely wallpapered in sanctions from the International Confederation of Wizards, love,” she replied. “It’s… not good.”

Ron wasn’t sure if she sounded scared or awestruck. Maybe both. That’s kind of how he felt about Hermione at the moment.

“But what does that _mean_?” Ron asked.

“She just signed off an international travel ban for Narcissa. And then it sounded like she sent one for the Wizengamot, as well,” Molly summarized, eyes still on the Harpy feeding frenzy before them. “So, if any of those Wizengamot members try to take a Portkey to Spain on holiday, they’ll find themselves incarcerated.”

“What?!” Ron barked. “She can do that?!”

Molly nodded sagely. “Not alone, but it seems the ICW has already discussed this.”

Ron wondered if his eyebrows were as high as they felt. He also wondered why the hell Harry looked so calm about all this. Maybe he’d planned it. But… he loved Harry. He truly did. But his best mate wasn’t the shiniest galleon in the bank.

Harry was, however, capable of creating a chaotic shitstorm everywhere he went, Ron thought with a nod to himself. Harry Potter was the demolitions expert of social structures.

Ron looked around to see who was left. Mostly the international sort, he noticed. 

He caught Falk’s eye and Falk _winked_ at him, then turned and nodded to Harry.

——————————————

Harry returned Falk’s nod and excitement thrilled through him. There were far too many nonplussed Wizengamot members in that box. Too comfortable. Too accustomed to leisure and sport.

The small man next to Falk stood and held his wand to his voicebox for volume. Harry sat up and tried to tamp down an expectant grin. Even Ron couldn’t cause an explosion like this.

“Ahem. Yes. Hello,” he stammered. “I am Mentor Metaxas, and I am the Chair of the ICW Quidditch Committee.”

Gratefully, Hermione and the Supreme Mugwump retreated to a side table with their reams of paper. Harry watched them with pride. Pink Power Granger, he thought to himself with a grin.

Several of the men in the Wizengamot box straightened and paid attention at the mention of Quidditch. Pitiful, Harry thought. Abuse, torture, and international sanctions galore; but what got their attention was fucking Quidditch.

“Yes, thank you.” Metaxas’ hands patted his plaid suit jacket down for lack of a better purpose. “The ICW travel sanction also applies to your Quidditch teams. The British and Irish League will not be eligible for international matches or the Quidditch World Cup. Not as participants, and certainly not as hosts. Not until this… mess… is cleaned up.”

He finished his announcement with more condescension than Harry had expected, and it was perfect. Harry nodded in approval.

A man in the Wizengamot box ripped his dumb, puffy hat off and stomped on it, to the horror of the women round him. Another man let loose a string of expletives that Harry suspected might have a lot more to do with money the man was going to lose than the actual game of Quidditch.

Harry looked back to Falk, who was grinning like a wolf in a sheep pen. He realized he’d never seen Falk smile, and hoped he never ever did again. This had to be what a Rusalka looked like when it drowned its prey.

Falk’s thick, pitching baritone voice filled the room with no need for magical amplification. “Those of you who care to know me do. The Ballycastle Bats have left the British and Irish League.”

“As have all of the Irish and Scottish teams, who have opted to form a new league.” Falk paused to let his words sink in. “The newly-formed Scots-Irish League has already accepted transferral by all relevant teams.”

The man who’d been stomping his hat picked it up, screamed, and threw it at Falk. It slid down the center aisle, and Falk paid it no mind.

“The Bats, the Kestrals, the Bangers, the Wanderers, Pride, and the Magpies have joined the Scots-Irish League. The Catapults and Harpies are in talks to form a Welsh league, but they may join us, as well.”

Metaxas nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, and the Scots-Irish League is welcome to compete internationally.”

The Wizengamot box erupted in a cacophony of profanity and more than a few hexes thrown toward Falk and Metaxas as the two men took their seats.

Harry coughed into his hand to hide his growing grin. It was so perfect. Watching the faces around them fall around them was worth all the trouble of the late-night emails and texts with Falk. They never could have gotten away with this via owls or Floos.

Quidditch, the straw that broke the Wizengamot’s back, Harry thought with a chuckle.

———————————————

_He was in a female body. A rather nice one, he had to say. And he… she… was naked, standing outside in a field of tall grass._

_With a lurch, she was down on the ground at eye-level with the roots of the grass. It smelled amazing. Some of the tender green shoots looked appetizing, and she took a quick nibble._

_A narrow footpath between the tall grass led to a wider one, and she bolted through it. The joy of sprinting unseen was unparalleled. She zipped around tight corners under cover of the swaying grass._

_The path ended in an immense opening. Beyond the edge was a road. Giving up her grassy canopy for the open air made her nervous. But another path was right across the road. She’d done this hundreds of times._

_With a quick glance around, she sprinted out into the road._

_Darkness! She couldn’t breath past the pain in her torso. She tasted blood before she could smell it. Smelling required breathing, and she couldn’t get any air._

_Feathers battered her face, and she saw the profile of a beak against the sun. Talons held her head tight to the ground and she tried to buck against the weight pinning her._

_She shifted in a tangle of blood-slicked limbs and matted blond hair. An eagle stood on her chest and looked up at her with one beady black eye before hopping off._

_The bird melted into a tall man with the sun behind him._

_“Lovegood?!” he barked._

_She tried to reply, but exhaled blood instead of words. It flowed down her breasts, hot and thick._

__”Merdasse!” _he spat as he palmed a knife._ ”Fuck… fuck… fuck…” __

_He reached a bleeding hand down and covered the wound under her breast. Air gurgled through the deep puncture under his palm as he whispered in broken sobs._

_“Stay awake, Luna.”_

_His hands and lips moved, but she wasn’t watching him anymore. The clouds behind him were more interesting. One of them looked like a fish, and it was going to float up and kiss him right on the cheek riiiiiight…now!_

_The cloud passed behind his head instead, and she frowned. He was watching her, oblivious to the fish cloud. He was scared. She could feel that he was scared, and that was odd._

_Recognition dawned on her as she watched the fish cloud drift out the other side of his head. Now he felt… curious. It was fun to feel his emotions._

_“Hello, Draco,” she whispered. “Welcome home.”_

_His face relaxed, and she felt his worry drain. But now he was nervous, instead._

_“I’m sorry. I was hunting, and I didn’t know you-“_

_“You’re an excellent hunter,” she congratulated._

_Oh, he liked that. He felt much better. He liked being complimented. And now he wasn’t nervous. The fish cloud had escaped entirely, she noticed._

_He knelt next to her and ran a hand over the soft skin where the largest wound had been. Right below her breast. It was still rather sensitive, but nice. Her nipples tightened in response, and she felt him notice._

_“You’re… rather enticing prey,” he admitted._

_His thumb traced the curve of her breast and she smiled up at him. His desire found hers as she pulled him down and claimed his mouth._

__”Ma biche.”

——————————————

Harry put his fingers in his ears and considered hiding under his table. A scarlet hex crashed onto the table next to his hand and left a smoking scorch mark in the wood. He stared at it, wide-eyed. They’d known this would cause upheaval, but he had assumed it would be mostly political in nature.

Falk had brazenly drawn a blood ward around himself and the ICW Quidditch Chairman, and they were standing inside the circle watching hexes smear down it like fluorescent bird shit. The two nutters were cheering every time one hit.

Hermione and the Supreme Mugwump had left the Minister’s podium after running out of either forms or steam. They’d each returned to their seats and were busily tapping on their mobile screens. Entirely too many similarities, Harry thought.

Harry turned around to see how many Weasleys were still in the room, and it appeared they were down to Arthur, Bill, Ron and Molly. Ron’s head was crushed to Molly’s bosom, and he was gently slapping her shoulder in an attempt to get her to release him. Bill subtly threw toenail-growing hexes at the Wizengamot box. 

The couple in the spiffy robes that had intimidated Malfoy still sat in their seats chatting pleasantly. Either nobody cared to fling hexes at them, or they had a way of blocking them he couldn’t see.

The _Wizengamot_ , however, had dissolved into a lunchroom food fight scene armed with magic, swearing, and a few fists. Falk’s announcement of a new League had pitted the fans of the new League’s teams against the few left in England, and civility had dissolved from there.

The posh man in the tuxedo had flung his jacket at Falk, ripped his shirt open to reveal a Harpies t-shirt, and stood on top of his chair screaming _Awn ni, Harpies!_ over and over. Firm supporter of a Welsh league, apparently.

Leave it to a Legilimens to turn a group of highly accomplished politicians into squabbling schoolchildren by dividing their Quidditch loyalties, Harry thought. 

The fans of the English teams wanted the Ministry to capitulate to the ICW’s demands, get the sanctions removed, and reunite the teams. The fans of the new Scots-Irish League teams were rather alright with the new arrangement, and many of them had sided with the Malfoys today.

Harry’s gut turned as a small team of Aurors entered from the back of the room.

———————————————

“Why?” Draco whispered. “Why that one?”

She nudged the truffles toward him. He watched them, but they held no interest. He could still remember the scent of her blood. Consommè and wine was what she’d smelled like at the time. Or something equally divine.

“To remind you that wonderful things often have terrifying beginnings, _mon pignon_ ,” she whispered. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and wished he could bundle her up in his arms. Or vice versa.

“That’s so vague,” he huffed as he wiped his cheeks dry.

“ _Unspeakably_ vague,” she said spookily. He could practically hear her wiggling her fingers for effect. “Time to go back.”

“But I’m not out of truffles,” he whined. “Or Prophesies.”

“But we are out of time,” she said firmly. “It moves much more quickly here.”

Several more colorful orbs were still glowing in wait. He didn’t really want to view them, but he certainly didn’t want to return to Courtroom Ten. Not with its Pensieve, and Malfoys, and international scrutiny.

“I don’t want to go back,” he whispered. Knowing it was futile to argue with her, he put the lid back on the box with its three remaining truffles. They might be more appetizing later.

“But it’s time.” Her voice hesitated, as if she weren’t sure she should elaborate. “The worst is over, _mon pignon_. And… you won’t see your parents again.”

The truffles threatened to come up. They were going to throw him back in a cell for parole violation. After all this, an impulsive escape home would be what got him imprisoned.

“I’m going back to Azkaban…” he whispered, again wishing he could touch her. "Because I ran again."

She snorted, and he bristled at the sound. Rude. “What?!” She barked. “No! Your family would never let them take you, even if they tried.”

It was his turn for a derisive snort. “I don’t have a family.” The blur moved closer, and he reached out to try to touch her. His hand passed though the edge, only succeeding in wavering along something like flowing water.

She circled around behind him, and he took in the image of the Hall of Prophecy in full. So many orbs. Lives and deaths. Wars and Enlightenments. All here waiting to be deciphered.

Arms wrapped around his waist from behind and her face pressed against his back. She exhaled a long sigh between his shoulder blades.

It was as much comfort as torture for her to hold him while he couldn’t touch her. He tucked the box under an arm and slid his hands down to her arms across his middle. His fingers sank through to his shirt, and he scowled. Not at all fair.

“If you don’t have a family, then who are all the people in that courtroom?” she muttered into his shirt.

“Oh…” he whispered.

She hummed and rubbed her cheek against his back. “You’ve rid yourself of everything you inherited, for good or bad.” Unseen hands turned him around and slid up his chest. “What’s left is what you made. The family you built. That you earned.”

Grief and gratitude crept up his throat and prickled in the corners of his eyes. A sob finally broke from him as he tried to put his hands over hers, but they slid through again. 

“And that family is immense. And powerful. And _quite_ upset, _mon pignon_.”

Her hands cradled his jaw, and lips grazed his chin.

Air pressure built, popped, and his ears filled with screaming.

———————————————

Harry flinched as a pop of Apparition shook the table under his hands, but it went unnoticed by the rest of the room. Draco sat placidly in his chair, a thin white box tucked under his arm.

Shacklebolt threw a doozie of a Muffliato over the Wizengamot members, and retook the podium. He hastily cast an amplifying spell on his gavel and slammed it against the disk on the podium. The resulting crack resounded down to Harry’s bones and he shuddered. Malfoy was stock-still. Shacklebolt examined his now-cracked gavel with disapproval.

Malfoy brushed platinum blond hair back from his forehead and surveyed the room while he set the box on the table. Draco’s gaze settled on Falk. Harry’s eyes itched, but he resisted the urge to rub them. At least he was getting better at knowing when it was Falk versus something in his eyes.

Malfoy snorted a surprised laugh and turned around to face Harry. He wiped a dab of blood from a nostril with his shirt cuff. The blood made Harry uneasy after having rewatched all of the other man’s memories. Draco must have been using their lingering bond, because he saw fit to apologize.

“Sorry. Consequences of too much information exchanged too quickly.”

He didn’t look sorry. He looked pleased as all hell. Harry frowned and felt through the bond, too.

Malfoy genuinely was amused, and tired, and.... aroused? Perplexing.

“Where did the Unspeakable take you?” Harry asked.

“Uhm…” Draco hesitated. “Hall of Prophecy.”

He opened the box and slid them toward Harry. Harry shook his head in declination. Shacklebolt was doing a headcount of the remaining Wizengamot members. Codger appeared to have tucked his tail and run at some point.

“Thank you, everyone who remained,” Shacklebolt grumbled, “to see this through. For civility’s sake, we’ll be moving forward rather informally.”

Worry crept through Harry. _Informal_ was code for _secret_. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught Connie nonchalantly lean into the aisle and flip her “Press” badge. Shacklebolt frowned at her, but Harry sighed in relief.

Shacklebolt continued. “Our only item left to address is a report from the Department of Magical Transportation-“

“That balding shitstain!” Ron belted. Molly slapped him in the back of he head and he glared at her. 

“…that Mr. Malfoy violated the conditions of his parole by Apparating from Ballycastle to his home. Auror Potter, any comment?”

“It was a misunderstanding.” Harry lied. “I told him we’d Apparate, but didn’t specify he needed to side-along with me. I received notification that he’d crossed into the Ministry ward at his home and didn’t feel it was worth follow-up.”

Hermione squinted at him and nodded slowly. Lying wasn’t his strong suit by a long shot, so her approval was appreciated.

The Wizengamot member who’d practically made kissy faces at Narcissa dared to speak. Harry wondered if Hermione was going to throw something else at her.

“Accidental or not, a violation is a violation, Kingsley,” she sniped. “Mr. Malfoy made headlines in _The Wizarding World News_ last week for stabbing Auror Potter right here in the Ministry lobby, as well.”

Shacklebolt rolled his eyes and briefly buried his face in his hands.

“Yes, I know, Belinda-”

“I’d like to point out, if I may,” came Connie’s stern voice, “that the article was researched and written by Alastair Flair, who has been dismissed from his position. Wizarding World also printed a retraction. And Mr. Flair has historically been denied employment at the Prophet and even Witch Weekly.”

“Potter?” Shacklebolt grumbled. “Comment?”

Harry looked at Draco, who shrugged noncommittally. “Yeah, no. I’d remember getting stabbed.”

Belinda huffed again. “There’s still the matter of his parole violation. He’s a flight risk.”

Draco snorted a laugh, and Harry frowned at him. No time for Animagus jokes, he thought.

Shacklebolt waved a hand dismissively toward the remaining Wizengamot members. “Settle on an appropriate response. This has gone on entirely too long.”

Nimble fingers plucked a truffle from the box in front of Harry, and he followed their movement. Draco brought the gold-streaked cube up to his lips, eyes on the Wizengamot. He ran the bottom of the candy over his bottom lip and his tongue darted out to take in the pattern on the underside.

Slowly, he set it between his teeth, and Harry shuddered. The memories of Draco getting his teeth knocked out on multiple occasions were too fresh. Grey eyes pinned him curiously. He didn’t think Malfoy used the bond as much as he did, but maybe he was wrong.

Ash blonde brows quirked in interest, but his gaze traveled back to the deliberation. He popped the truffle in his mouth whole, much to Harry’s relief.

The self-appointed Wizengamot spokeswitch, Belinda, took up Codger’s podium. Bold, Harry thought. She had a similar bitter disposition, and reminded him of a professor whose only goal was making children hate learning.

“The Wizengamot recommends a six-month extension of Mr. Malfoy’s parole,” she said snidely.

“You bloody wankers!” Ron shouted from the back, which earned him another slap from Molly.

Through the bond, Harry felt Draco’s resigned disappointment, but he hoped the other man felt his resolve. It was far too heavy-handed, and it looked like Hermione agreed with him. She was busily chatting with the Committee members around her.

Hermione stood to address the room from the box, and Harry heard Ron’s breath hiss in from several rows away. “Given that Mr. Malfoy has posed a bit of a flight risk only recently,” Hermione looked to Draco for acknowledgment of her joke, but he rolled his eyes instead, “perhaps closer supervision for a shorter period of time would be warranted? It could free up DMLE staff in the near future, as well.”

She was speaking to this Belinda woman, but she was looking at Harry. He had no clue what she meant, but he’d learned well enough to trust her for on-the-fly decisions.

Belinda sauntered back to the box to confer with the other Wizengamot members, most of whom were nodding with mild indifference.

“Yes, Ms. Granger. It’s a reasonable proposal. In the past, when the DMLE experienced staff shortages, we often substituted supervision for custody,” Belinda said with grudging respect. “One week of custody for six months of parole isn’t unheard of.”

Hermione was glaring at him, and Harry had no idea why. He looked around the room in hopes of a hint, but everyone was watching Shacklebolt and Belinda. He shook his head in confusion at Hermione, but she just rolled her eyes.

Shacklebolt had melted onto his podium with his chin sitting on top of his forearms. “Potter? Is that acceptable?”

Harry stammered, not sure what DMLE custody even entailed. Did that mean Azkaban? Was there a jail for petty wizard criminals he wasn’t aware of?

He looked to Malfoy, who was scowling at him and very subtly shaking his head. Hermione’s voice interrupted his confusing silent exchange with Malfoy.

“If Mr. Malfoy’s combined eighteen months were exchanged for three weeks of closer supervision, I think it might free up _certain_ DMLE staff,” Hermione said.

She was still glaring at him, and looked like she wanted to kick him under a table. Belinda sidled back up to Codger’s podium and turned to argue with Hermione. Hermione was gesturing to her head, and it finally clicked.

“Oh!” Harry yelled, drawing everyone’s attention. “Yeah, it would.”

Hermione beckoned with her hand slowly, encouraging him to continue.

“I…” Harry stammered. “If I had Malfoy’s probation and supervision over and done with, I’d be willing to take the Head Auror position. In three weeks. Officially.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Ron grumbled loudly, and Harry heard another smack.

Shacklebolt eyed him suspiciously, despite looking ready to take a nap on a podium. The Wizengamot members seemed to be tittering more than deliberating, and Shacklebolt hit them with another Muffliato.

He sat up with a deep sigh. “Go on, Potter.”

Malfoy was hissing something at him under his breath, but the blood pounding in his ears was too loud for him to hear.

“I can be well-prepared enough in three weeks to take up the position. I’ve already been shouldering a fair amount of the workload,” Harry began. “And I can reasonably commit to a five-year tenure as Head Auror. With ample, and positive, press coverage.”

He nodded at Connie, and she gave him a thumbs up. He frowned at the gesture, but continued, confidence in his offer building as Shacklebolt listened. “And after that, there are some other DMLE projects I’d like to focus on. They might take me a solid decade, but I think they’ll be worth it.”

Belinda scowled at him and approached Hermione. _Lie, Power Granger, lie_ , he thought. _Tell them it’s weapons, or firepower. Something they can get excited about._

Blond hair and furious grey eyes suddenly blocked his view of Hermione expertly lying her curls off. “Potter, what the _fuck_ are you doing?” Malfoy hissed. “Don’t auction yourself off to these people. You’ve seen what they are.”

Harry hoped his tired smile didn’t reach his eyes. He knew damned well what these people were. The Aurors in the back of the room who’d been written up countless times. The Wizengamot members who had soft spots for unrepentant, genocidal Death Eaters. The bureaucrats whose only true loyalties were on a Quidditch field.

“I can’t change it from the outside, Malfoy,” he whispered.

Harry tested the bond expecting to find anger, but was flooded with overwhelming grief. Tears shimmered in the corners of Malfoy’s eyes. Harry frowned in confusion.

“We like it,” Belinda chirped. “Kingsley?”

“Yeah, fine.” Kingsley said, with another dismissive wave. “Write it up, sign it.”

He rose from the podium and addressed the Aurors in the back of the room. “He’s all yours.”

Red robes marched toward the front of the room, and Harry wished he’d have dropped the bond with Malfoy.

Draco’s crushing desperation coursed through him as he fumbled through his own pockets.

———————————————

Chocolate would be a particularly vile substance to vomit on a courtroom floor, Draco thought as Auror robes lined up in front of him. He swallowed the upcoming rush back down and tested the bond with Potter. 

Harry was… happy? Happy to be rid of one problematic Draco Malfoy, most likely. 

A part of him crumbled and he regretted his stunt in Potter’s bathroom. It had been entirely too much, and now Potter was going to have him sent away for three weeks rather than have to look at him.

Three weeks, though. He could handle three weeks in Azkaban, assuming the remaining Death Eaters didn’t have him killed while the guards weren’t looking. Big assumption, that.

Maybe he’d get thrown in the Oubliette again for his own safety. Nice, deep, dark hole with nobody to hex him. It hadn’t been _that_ bad after he’d tattered his wings against the stone and resigned himself to the long wait.

Or perhaps he’d get to taste those new toys he’d seen on the guards’ belts. Of its own accord, his tongue traced his teeth. He reached over to pack up his truffles, because damned if he wasn’t going to finish them while he could.

Before he could get a hold of the box, cold metal slapped across the back of his wrist. 

The ever-present hum of magic died, and he gasped at its absence. _Cuffs. Auror cuffs._ A rush of expectations flooded him. His jaw clenched and he braced for impact. But no one wrenched his wrists behind his back or slammed him onto the table. In fact, no one moved much at all.

“There.” Potter stated. “He’s in custody.”

Draco opened eyes he didn’t remember closing and looked at his wrist. The daft bastard had cuffed them together. 

His jaw dropped as memories flooded him.

_Potter in Auror robes, standing on a cliff over the sea. Potter in robes holding sweets. He landed next to the Auror in a flutter of feathers and walked forward on human feet.  
“Why you?” he asked the man. The scar was wrong. It shot left where it should have gone right.  
Panic ripped through him as he turned to flee, but the snick of metal around his wrist dropped him to the ground. The man’s head shifted from a thick black mop to a balding pate above a sneering grin.  
“Fucker, we’ve got you,” he spat.  
“Nice job, Langerhorn,” another man said.  
Draco’s jaw clenched as a boot reared back._

“ _Langerhorn_.” Draco whispered, studying Harry’s face. 

It looked like Harry. The real Harry. The scar was correct. But it had been five years. Plenty of time to perfect such a complicated Polyjuice.

Harry shook his head and frowned. “What?”

At a loss for words, Draco slid their cuffed hands into contact and shoved the memory into Harry’s mind.

Aurors gathered below the speaker’s platform, shifting in anxious anticipation. Hermione glared at them and leaned forward, ready to pounce.

“That’s… unorthodox, Potter.” Shacklebolt grumbled as he waved down the approaching Aurors. “But it _could_ suffice. Belinda?”

She sighed dramatically and left the podium to confer with the remaining Wizengamot members again.

Draco tasted Harry’s horror as he watched the memory of how the Ministry had captured him. He blinked several times and held Draco in a steady green gaze.

“They used me as bait?” Harry whispered urgently to Draco. “A Polyjuice me?”

Draco nodded too quickly for his own dignity and hummed a nervous agreement. Tears pooled in Harry’s eyes and he blinked them away. “I didn’t know, Draco.”

He nodded again, lacking both the words and the capacity to use them. His focus was entirely on the spectacled green eyes in front of him and the abstract concept of forcing air in and out of his own nose. It didn’t seem like the air was doing anything or even moving. Was it possible to breathe incorrectly?

Hot, rough fingers wrapped around his wrist below the cuff and slid their joined hands under the table. Potter scooted his chair closer as thick fingers laced themselves between Draco’s.

“The cuffs are just for show. We’re not letting them take you,” he murmured as Belinda retook her podium. “You promised me beef Bergeron, remember?” 

Draco forced a long inhale but couldn’t tell if his chest was actually moving.

“Boeuf bourguignon,” he exhaled.

He squeezed Harry’s hand and swallowed thickly. This was Harry Potter. Not the sadist who’d found him on a cliffside and lured him into human form. This was the real Potter. And the real Potter wanted to wash his dishes, not clean his fucking clock.

“Well, Mr. Potter,” Belinda sniped, “if you’re prepared to organize an Auror rotation, we’ll approve your sentence modifications.”

“Done.” Harry announced, a touch too jubilantly for Draco’s liking. There weren’t many Aurors who would want this task. Not if it didn’t involve taking out some frustrations on a Death Eater.

“Fine, fine.” Shacklebolt grumbled. “The paperwork will be on your desk by the time you get there. You know the stipulations. Does the ICW have anything they’d like to blurt out, scream, or throw?”

Belinda glared at the Supreme Mugwump, who was busily popping bubble wrap on her phone again. Draco hazarded a suspicious glance toward Hermione as she openly admired the older woman.

“Yes, in fact. The ICW would like to reiterate that we do not consider Draco Lucius Malfoy to have violated _any_ international statues. Ever,” Coelho said firmly. “And further, given your continued prosecution of him, we will grant him the protections afforded a political refugee.”

Belinda’s scowl threatened to separate her chin from the rest of her face, and Draco wondered if Shacklebolt’s eyes could roll back in his head any more sarcastically.

Shacklebolt cleared his throat as he stood and began stuffing papers in a bag. “Might I remind him that being apprehended leaving the UK will still earn Mr. Malfoy an extended sentence in Azkaban?”

“Only if you get caught,” Harry mused, leaning in.

Someone cleared their throat with suspicious enthusiasm, and Malfoy turned to find Ron staring at him. Ron winked unsubtly and mouthed _Floo_ to him. Draco shook his head in disapproval. Tactless ginger.

A smooth, deep voice came from behind them, and he turned to the pair of red and blue robes rising and gathering their things.

“The Asklepieion of Kos would be honored to host Draco Malfoy whenever he may choose.” 

He pressed a thumb to his chin and nodded to Draco, then turned to his companion. Draco’s breath caught at the gesture, and stayed hitched as he processed the offer.

“As would the Seers Guild in Delphi,” she said quietly. She looped her arm through his and they started down the aisle to the door.

A shudder crept up Draco’s back at _that_ offer. Delphi sounded like a terrible, fascinating idea. It probably looked like the Slytherin dormitory and the Hall of Prophecy smashed together and rolled in a Dementor robe.

The couple walked calmly toward the door, and the man took Molly’s hand and brushed a cordial kiss across her knuckles on the way. 

The rustle of bags being packed and papers sorted shushed over the room, and he turned to Harry. “You look like shit, Draco,” he said with an attempt at levity.

“People keep telling me that,” he sighed. “And I keep agreeing with them.”

The Wizengamot was gratefully using the side doors to file out, and not passing their table. Hermione and Ron were both queuing up to leave, but he and Potter just sat.

“Where are you going to find a three-week rotation of Aurors who _don’t_ want me to mysteriously die in my sleep, Potter?”

Harry shrugged and snatched a truffle with his free hand. He tossed it in his mouth whole and crushed it like a baboon eating a beetle. Barbarian.

“You’re looking at him.”

“Oh.” Draco grimaced. “Superb.”

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

_Ma Biche_

I expect the unexpected, and yet am surprised still.  
This grace in place of hatred, love, it’s kind enough to kill.

To dance with death is one thing, but even braver yet,  
To knowing lay with liars, and take that losing bet.

It cannot end contently, the world will see to it.  
And still we thrill, till it all turns to shit.

DLM 2006 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	26. Thai and Jack It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Hermione have friends in high places.
> 
> Harry gets on Draco's nerves, maybe shouldn't have forced those topics of conversation yet.
> 
> Draco gets annoyed, horny, scared, and has a bit of a breakdown.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

The Oubliette

Perfect darkness?  
You deal in death, it’s all you get.  
Perfect: darkness.

_Extinguo_. Give me the starkness  
Cerebral walls, breathe down, forget.  
Perhaps it ends here, my vignette.

Perfect! Darkness…

DLM 2003 Azkaban  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

“Bah, _putain de merde_.”

Ink-sodden paper gave way under the quill nib. Letting it linger on the thick paper had given the ink just enough time to soak through a half-finished cock sketch. Distraction abounded with an Auror in residence, and it had only been sixteen hours. Not that he was counting.

Potter looked up, and Draco waved his attention off from his seat on the couch. Black hair lowered back down inside the fortress of paperwork that polluted his dining table. Every one of those files had “Malfoy” on it. A family history penned in liquid guilt on the skin of those less fortunate. But Potter just sat there, like he had been all morning. Reading, making small notes, and _texting_.

Salazar’s sweaty soles, the _texting_. The gods-forsaken mobile purred like an out-of-tune drunken cat, clattering constantly against the table. Like Granger’s Kneazle with a-

It vibrated again, and he lost the mental image. “Potter,” he stated calmly. “I am going to challenge that contraption to a diving contest if you don’t shut it the fuck up.”

Potter transferred it to his pocket, where it continued vibrating. Alongside his keys. The Muggle tympanic torture drumline.

Potter looked up briefly, but didn’t hold his gaze for long. “Sorry. I issued mobiles to the Aurors investigating your… Liore.” He frowned and worried his lip. Draco shrugged. The nomenclature was irrelevant. “Anyway,” he continued, “there’s no way to Firecall Malfoy…“

Draco sighed and lay back on the sofa, shoulders propped up against the arm. “It’s fine. You can refer to the property as Malfoy Manor. You can call her by her name, or call her my sister. You can even call Lucius and Narcissa my parents.”

“Oh, okay.” Potter relaxed visibly and began merging piles of folders. “So, it worked out pretty well that the Aurors I wanted doing the legwork already had or were willing to use mobiles. Turns out the tech-savvy Aurors happen to like your parents the least.”

“Convenient,” Draco quipped with a nod. “Why did you tell Ron to build a bloody owlery out next to the road, then?”

Files alternated on the pile, every group perpendicular to its neighbors. It was neat and organized, and the efficiency was a bit surprising. Harry stood and stared down at him.

“So the owls will stop hitting your wards,” he paused as he stretched, “and stop getting eaten by eagles.”

One wrist firmly held in the other hand’s grasp, his back arched and shuddered as his shirt rode up. Dark hair marched a neat line down from his navel. A soft hum of interest escaped Draco’s nose, and he startled himself. Potter groaned and pulled his arms behind his back, eliciting several pops and another soft moan.

“Not that your wards can’t handle it, but I have to be reachable by owl. And I wouldn’t mind finding out who sends you curses.”

Harry caught him looking and smirked. _Smirked._ Sliding his gaze away, Draco was exceptionally glad the bond from Healing Potter’s shoulder was gone. Sexual exhibition was one thing, but emotional exhibition quite another.

He slid the mobile out of his pocket; it having grown lonely in three minutes, and frowned at the screen. “I’m going to have to go into Truro to charge this soon,” he muttered. “Well, _we’re_ going to have to go.”

Draco perked up. Flying into town sounded like a glorious idea. 

He’d gotten, at most, three hours of sleep the previous night, thanks to Potter’s existence in his home. The man had rolled off the couch not once, not twice, but thrice. He’d never once stuck the landing gracefully, and the resulting grumbles had repeatedly startled Draco awake.

But, as with any other privacy spells or charms, a simple Muffliato was not allowed. No, no privacy permitted during “DMLE custody”. All the intrusion of Azkaban, but none of the thrilling random acts of violence. Not that he hadn’t been tempted to shove his Auror about a bit.

Potter had managed to cock up Draco’s entire morning routine, really. His dawn ward run had been immensely slowed down by having to stay within the prescribed sixty feet of his jailer, who was no sprinter. Said jailer did not at all appreciate being told to run upon waking, either. Very grumpy.

But worst of all, Draco was grounded. Literally. A smaller bird could have flitted around within the sixty-foot range, but not a fucking eagle. So, instead of spending his morning on the wing fishing, he was trapped in his home. With an audience. And that _mobile_.

“I would _love_ to fly into Truro so we can keep that horrid thing alive,” Draco replied. “I’ve seen Muggles plug their mobiles in at the library before. And you might get to meet Eira, but she’s usually only there till eleven.”

Stifling a small grin, he wondered what Eira would do to Potter. Possibly regale him with the sexual exploits of his predecessor. _Eira and Gawain in DMLE, F-U-C-K-I-N-G._

“Oh. Right. Yeah,” Harry muttered. “But we’ll have to Apparate in. One of us doesn’t have wings.”

Draco briefly considered crumpling to the floor like a disappointed toddler, but he was already lounging on a couch. He allowed his will to live to crumple in his stead.

“ _One of us_ is going to lose his ever-loving mind, because _one of us_ is rather accustomed to diurnal long sprints and several hours of strenuous flying per day,” Draco explained, sitting up in the middle of the sofa. 

He raked blond hair back from his face and watched Potter’s gaze follow his movements. Green eyes lingered on Draco’s chest before daring to rise back to his face.

Harry tapped distractedly on the mobile screen. “It’s only three weeks. You’ll find something else to do.”

“That’s precisely what I’m worried about, Potter.” He let his eyes wander over the other man’s form slowly, lingering on the visage of his denim-clad hips before drifting up to meet uneasy hazel eyes.

“Oh,” he whispered, comprehension dawning.

———————————

Another gardening book landed on the pile near Harry’s head, jolting him out of an almost-slumber. It had taken him forever to get to sleep last night, and by the time he had, it was apparently time to literally run in a circle as fast as humanly possible.

Rather rude awakening. He set his glasses on the library table and hid his face against his resting arms. Taking a nap while his mobile charged sounded perfectly reasonable.

A sharp thunk to the back of his head startled him to alertness. The most recent addition to the pile had slid off and clocked him. The glossy-pictured book fell off the side of his head and opened to a section on common fungal afflictions of stone fruits.

“Malfoy,” he called down the nearby stacks, “what’s with all the gardening books? It’s October.”

Silver-framed glasses somehow made his huff more arrogant. “Fall planting season. In three weeks, I can finally get something growing.”

Harry sighed and nuzzled back into his sleeves, no clue what a planting season was, and no interest in finding out. Regardless, an eager Malfoy dropped down in the chair opposite him. “Orchards and vineyards get planted in the fall.”

Silence lingered, and Harry got the impression he was expected to contribute to this conversation. “Ron planted an orchard at the Burrow that I guess does pretty well.”

Malfoy scoffed. “You’d have to be blind to not notice that orchard. It’s a fucking masterpiece.” Harry wasn’t sure if that was a crack about his vision, because he’d certainly never paid Ron’s orchard much mind.

Another book landed on the stack, and Harry eyed it warily. “You can add maybe three more, and then I’m at the limit of being able to Apparate both you and your books back home.”

———————————

Ron tried to not hum tunelessly under his breath, but lost the battle as he wove through the back hall of the store. Boxes of new merchandise sat in piles, creating an impromptu obstacle course. In at least one of them was a set of pronged jewelry settings. And sometime soon, he was going to have to come up with a name for a jewelry line. Something classy, but not so obscure that the average person wouldn’t know what it meant. Something that combined divination and poshness.

Seer… stones? Sounds like bollocks.  
Prophet… pendants? Sounds like only necklaces.  
Precious… portents? Sounds like a place to buy baby clothes.

Fuck it. Draco could come up with something better. Ron slipped a Muggle pen out of his pocket to write on his palm _DLM-Line name_ , with full knowledge the ink would wash off long before he’d remember to ask Draco.

Pen still poised, he nudged his office door open to find a man in his chair.

“Mornin’,” the man said. It was the cowboy-looking wizard from the Wizengamot shenanigans yesterday. White button-down with a bolo tie and silver disk, jeans, boots. Short salt and pepper hair, dark eyes, deep complexion, eyes that crinkled like they were used to laughing, but didn’t find Ron particularly humorous.

“Uh…” Ron stammered. “Hi.”

“Have a seat,” the man said, gesturing to the rickety chair he mainly kept around for Harry’s visits and the occasional heart to heart talk with employees.

Ron sat, but eyed the man at his desk warily. How long had he been just helping himself to the Wheeze’s bookkeeping? And how did he get back here?

“John Pitchlynn. ICW. American Mugwump,” he said, piercing black eyes analyzing Ron uncomfortably. The man leaned forward to shake Ron’s hand, and at least had the good graces to not pull a face at his clammy palm.

Ron’s heart thudded in his throat, and he swallowed uncomfortably past it. The last time he’d heard an American accent, it had been the Aurors who’d brought him the Horned Serpent and a pile of forms. Those shifty mother fuckers. MACUSA must have ratted him out.

“I’m not really here as a Mugwump, kiddo. You can relax.”

“Okay.” Ron croaked, not relaxing one bit. Visions of Azkaban danced in his head. Or worse. What was the international equivalent?

“My father’s family is Choctaw,” he said, as if that explained everything. Ron examined his face, trying to decide if he should make a run for it.

“Okay,” he said, more firmly this time.

“Well, we got your package, you know,” Pitchlynn continued, though Ron shook his head. He hadn’t known what happened to the package. “And I was just kinda curious why you sent us Horned Serpent parts like you did.”

Pitchlynn leaned back in the chair and hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets as he waited for a response.

Ron’s eyes darted side to side under hooded lids, trying to put words to the sentiment that had driven his actions. He definitely hadn’t been motivated by malice, so he figured he didn’t have anything to lose by being honest.

“It’d be kind of like if a unicorn died in Australia, you know?” Ron blurted, hands spread for emphasis, half-holding his breath. Pitchlynn shook his head, not grasping the idea. 

“Well, it’s… it’s like, unicorns belong _here_. Like, us and unicorns have shared this part of the world since before anyone remembers. And if one died in Australia, that’s just, it’s just, I dunno, wrong. The wrong soil. It’s not home. It should come back here. To us.”

Pitchlynn hummed in thought, transferring his hands to his back pockets. “And why go through the Choctaw and not MACUSA?”

Ron shrugged, the answer obvious. “I guess I didn’t trust MACUSA not to just shove it in a storage locker. They’re too much like the Ministry.” Ron took a deep breath and continued. “I knew somebody who knew somebody who I figured might know what to do as far as a proper burial. To send it home.”

Nodding, Pitchlynn extended a business card. “Hang onto that, Red. If you get in trouble, that’s your Get out of Jail Free card. Rip it in half, and you’ll find yourself in the Oklahoma City ICW office. Auror cuffs, Azkaban, won’t matter.”

“Oh,” he squeaked, accepting the card with numb fingers. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Pitchlynn stood to leave, and called over his shoulder. “See you around.”

Merlin, Ron thought. Hopefully not soon.

———————————

The confounded mobile _rang_ , and Draco’s pen skittered off the edge of the notebook page. He’d given up on sketching due to the distractions. The noise. The vibration. The looming sexual tension and his own restlessness combining into a dangerous inferno that beckoned his hands to his pants.

“Yeah?” Potter answered. “Hey, Millie! Sorry, didn’t recognize the number.”

Potter left his coffee on the table and wandered through the kitchen to the door and patio.

“You got my email, then?” He shuffled his feet into untied shoes and slipped through the door, shutting it behind him.

Suspicious, Draco thought. It was a common enough name; Millie. But not _that_ common. Perhaps they had a similar arrangement to him and Luna. Eyes darting in thought, he wondered if Luna knew he’d be unavailable for three weeks.

That would be fun to explain to Potter. Why Luna Lovegood either showed up at his wards with the Bag o’ Fun or stark naked and then immediately turned into a rabbit and gleefully scampered away. He shrugged to himself. She hadn’t asked to play hunting games in months.

Having her over did sound like a good plan, but they’d never once simply spent time together. Only briefly, both of them exhausted and sated. What would they even do if they weren’t playing games? Talk about Nargles and the weather? Pass.

Maybe Granger would wander over tonight. She’d been spending several nights a week in his bed, sex or no sex. Then again, the intimacy of another Legilimens sounded both claustrophobic and cathartic. And then there was the complication of the rampaging, horny Stegodon in the room if she did spend the night.

Harry slunk in through the door like a drunk teenager at dawn. “I, well, _we_ need to make a run to my flat. Thai for dinner?”

Draco quirked an eyebrow, intrigued. “And jacket, I assume?”

“I… yeah?” Harry gulped audibly. “If you want. If it’s not too much. Or I could. Or both. Or whatever.”

Potter was incredibly nervous about fine dining, it seemed. “Both of us, obviously. Wouldn’t really be proper otherwise. Side-along me?”

“Proper. Sure. Yeah.”

————————————

Ministry Munchies must have found a legitimate pastry chef, judging by the croissants in the case, Hermione thought. A riot of white curls hustled up behind her in line and hovered while she ordered her drink. 

“ _Psiu, ‘Erminha._ ”

She turned to find Supreme Mugwump Coehlo, who smiled softly and reached up the sleeve of her robe. For her wand, Hermione assumed. Or her mobile. Both dangerous weapons. Starstruck, she simply watched the older woman nod encouragingly and extend a business card.

In the adrenaline of yesterday’s political battle, they’d fallen into deadly, administrative lockstep like sisters in arms. But in the hush of the Atrium, the chasm of authority lay heavy between them.

“Oh, I…” she stammered, “thank you.” Confused, she accepted the card, which was indistinguishable from a Muggle business card, with the exception of the hum of multiple spells.

“We’ve been watching you for years, ‘Erminha. Since you Obliviated police in Perth.”

Hermione’s gut dropped and her chest flushed. She should have known that Australia’s absence of a Ministry equivalent meant it was directly overseen by the ICW. But she’d been eighteen, alone, and terrified.

“You did well,” Coehlo reassured. “And you’ve continued to do so. Keep that card. It’s a Portkey to the ICW library in Amsterdam.”

“Oh! I’ve seen pictures. It looks amazing!” Hermione swallowed the urge to hold the Portkey in both hands above her head and twirl while conjuring confetti.

The few pictures she’d seen of the ICW library were jaw-dropping. Frescoed lobby walls in the light of a windowed ceiling. Delicately spiraling staircases in the corners of a marble-floored reading room filled with tufted chaise lounges.

“It is, but the cataloguing system is the real magic.” She preened. “Second maybe to the suites for visiting scholars.” She grinned and tugged Hermione close. “The beds are rather large and the Portkey will carry you all.” She drew down one of her own curls and let it spring back up with a wink.

“I look forward to your visit. Soon.” 

She nodded again with finality, and Apparated in a reverberating clap. The Atrium reeked of ozone, and Hermione wondered if it should be ominous, though it smelled wonderful.

————————————

Potter’s flat had a new couch, which begged the question of _why_. A week ago, they’d had an especially nice time thanks to those cushions. Harry had been surprisingly adept at using a bond for sex, and Draco had certainly had a lovely experience on those cushions. But apparently Potter had then seen fit to replace not just the couch, but the matching armchair, as well?

Did he not want to be reminded of Draco’s little show? Of tucking him in on the couch before that? Of having dinner and watching a movie on it? It was one of the few things in the flat Draco had touched, and Potter had expediently rid himself of it.

Panic unfurled up his chest and tightened his throat. There was no evidence of other redecorating, and this new sofa was no upgrade. It looked like the wall of a padded cell folded in half. Not aesthetically-pleasing at all.

He ran shaky fingers along the metal tubing of the frame and spoke to Potter’s open bedroom door. “Did Diagon Arts take your couch for a performance art installation?”

“What?” Harry called. He appeared to be losing a wrestling match with cords. “Oh, no. I moved the set to Robards’ old office last week. A futon seemed like a better idea.”

“ _Je n’ai rien à_ futon,” he mumbled. “Muggles have dedicated couches for fucking off on?”

“Huh?” Harry grunted, exiting the bedroom with neat coils of cords in hand. “I’m going to assume Fleur would think that’s hilarious. But, no. It folds down into a bed. And I bought blackout curtains, but I haven’t put them up yet.”

“Oh,” Draco whispered. Anxious pressure in his throat evaporated and collected in his tear ducts as understanding bloomed. One substandard night’s sleep, and Potter was refurnishing. For him. He rubbed a sweaty fingerprint off the metal frame.

“Why did you subject the Head Auror office to your bland furniture?” Blinking rapidly, he stifled both his gratitude and a myriad of questions. “And _why_ did you accept that position?” 

Draco ventured a disapproving scowl at Potter. “And why the _fuck_ did you auction yourself off to the Ministry for fifteen years?”

He’d been avoiding broaching the topic since Potter’s announcement yesterday. Yes, Harry Potter was moderately desperate to get in Draco Malfoy’s pants, he reminded himself. But was he enough of an imbecile to indenture himself to DMLE service to hasten the removal of said pants? Was he so impatient that he’d wear a badge for _fifteen years_ rather than wait till August for a good shag? Because it _would_ be truly excellent.

Harry shrugged and stuffed the cords in a rucksack. “I was already going to take the position. I just figured I’d keep it in my back pocket in case it was useful.” He shouldered the bag and hefted it onto the kitchen counter. “That’s why I went ahead and put furniture in the office last week.”

“Oh…” Draco exhaled softly. Potter the plotter strikes again, he thought.

“And the project is one I wanted to do, anyway, but I know the Minister and Wizengamot would have shot it down.” He stopped to remove his glasses and scrub them with the hem of his t-shirt. “This way, they’ve already publicly but unknowingly approved it, and I can get some framework in place while I’m Head Auror. And shitcan a whole lot of Aurors.”

“Huh,” Draco huffed. Harry _did_ look tragically appetizing in his Slytherin-green shirt at the moment. “What’s the project?”

Some kind of early dark wizard detection system, Draco suspected. It would have to be relative to the war for the Minister and Wizengamot to have approved of whatever Granger had been whispering about in the courtroom. Or something flashy. Loud. Explosive.

Potter shuffled around his kitchen, putting seemingly random items in the rucksack. Pot holders. A can opener. A handful of forks. A corkscrew. Tea towels. Draco frowned. His own kitchen was actually lacking all of those specific items. And Harry had apparently taken inventory and made a list. In addition to the dishes. Those stupid, thoughtful, perfect dishes.

“Well,” he started with a sigh. “There are two parts. The one Hermione sold the Committee and Wizengamot, and then the second phase I’ll start in my last year as Head Auror.”

Draco leaned against the back of the futon, and jumped up when it shifted under his weight. Shoddy _and_ ugly _foutre_. “I’m starting to think I never want to play chess with you, Potter.”

“Fuckin’ hate chess,” he grumbled, inspecting the contents of his refrigerator. “So, first five years, major DMLE policy overhaul. Hermione’s already been drafting new regulations, because… she’s Granger.”

Draco nodded dumbly, both eager and terrified to hear what Harry Potter would do in a position of authority.

“Five years is enough time to turn over most of the Auror force, too. Policy changes, retroactive firings, revise the entire job description and qualifications.” He paused briefly to set a green bottle of beer on the counter. “Hire new Aurors. Less firepower, more life experience.” 

“That sounds ambitious,” Draco murmured. And it was, he thought. But who would stop the Head Auror from hiring and firing his staff? In theory, the Minister _could_ , but it was doubtful he _would_. Not when said Head Auror was Harry Potter, war hero and media darling. Stroke of genius, that was.

Harry smiled softly as he snatched a bottle opener off the side of the fridge. “That’s just the first two or three years.” He popped the cap off the bottle and took a long swig.

“I used to brew a mean Pepper-Up, if you’re interested in a crate or two,” Draco offered as Potter handed the bottle off to him. “I assume you end up Minister at the end of this tale.”

“Merlin, no,” Harry scoffed. “Replace most of the Aurors, but hire the new ones to work where they already live. The DMLE will be a ghost town by 2013 if it works out.”

“Madness, Harold.” Draco stated dryly, pointing the lip of the bottle at him. “Sheer madness.”

“A bit, maybe. Might have them work out of their houses like Healers. Make them eat where they shit.” Harry challenged, holding his hand out for the beer. “Bet they’d do a whole lot less shitting, you know?”

Draco hummed in understanding. “From personal experience, yes. Having the local magical community know where a public servant lays his head at night is a good bit of accountability. And children tend to leave gifts.”

Surreal, Draco thought, to be splitting a beer with a wizard who was plotting to overhaul the Ministry. Better than watching a wizard split lips while plotting its downfall. “What happens after you single-handedly defang the DMLE?”

Potter handed what was left of the beer over to him with a sheepish grin.

“How much do you know about Muggle child protection services?”

“Literally nothing.”

———————————

Tears dripped from his chin, his nose ran rivulets, and he couldn’t speak. Fire crept down Draco’s throat, cutting him off. Not that anyone around him was in a listening mood. 

“I told you not to order that,” Harry admonished.

Potter had _talked_. Talked to the point of near-breathlessness about his career plans. DMLE plans. Ministry plans. Hell, plans that would ripple through the global magical community.

“Here, trade me.” He plucked the aluminum container from Draco’s lap, replacing it with his own. The stupid Gryffindor then heroically took the poison unto himself.

“To be fair,” Draco croaked. “I thought you meant tie, like dress code. Not Thai, like… this. I was prepared to wear a restaurant loaner jacket.”

Harry smirked. It was becoming a bit of a pattern. “I’m not even going to tell you what I thought you meant by jacket.”

Several bites of Harry’s rice quelled the esophageal inferno, and rationality returned as Harry’s words hit him.

“Oh…” Draco whispered. “Oh. That’s maybe a topic for when I can breathe. And see straight. Merlin’s fucking tits.” 

Harry nodded and shoveled in a second mouthful of the scarlet curry. Draco waited for him to explode in capsaicin-induced pyrotechnics, but he calmly arranged a third spoonful.

“You know, if your whole,” Draco flicked his fork in search of words, “system had been in place, you’d have been raised a Weasley.”

Anxiety and a certain amount of dread prickled down his arms as he weighed the gravity of Potter’s reforms. Merlin Almighty, the horrors that could have been prevented. And not just for the two of them.

Harry hummed his agreement around a mouthful of culinary Crucio, unfazed.

“And you know Harry Weasley is a horrible name.” Draco smirked. “You’d have had no employment options beyond adult entertainment.”

He'd flung the words as a diversion. A mental stumbling block to knock Potter off-track; to leave him flustered, inattentive. An underhanded way to lighten the conversation, but much-needed in the face of Draco’s disquiet at the rising tide of _What if_.

What if Tom Riddle had been given a home? What if the war had never happened? What if Harry Potter really had become the unfortunately-named Harry Weasley?

What if Narcissa had been able to send Liore to another family? What if he had an older sister? What if they’d met at Hogwarts? What if they’d been sorted into the same House? _What if… What if… What if…_

Potter stared at him, chewing slowly. Why that food wasn’t melting his teeth, Draco had no idea. “How and why do you know anything about porn star names, Malfoy? You’ve never lived anywhere with electricity.”

He exhaled slowly, grateful his deflection had worked. When in doubt, discombobulate. “Magnus had a computer,” he offered eagerly; a breadcrumb trail of enthusiasm. Follow the siren song, for the other way lay the Maelstrom. “It wasn’t difficult to operate. And I was curious.”

“ _How?_ ” Harry said incredulously. He bit into a small red pepper, and Draco winced. “Durmstrang is in the middle of nowhere. No way did you have electricity. Let alone Internet access.”

Draco hummed in thought. “He put a shiny black thing on the roof. With cords that went to a heavy little block that had to be kept inside.”

“A solar panel. Okay,” Harry acquiesced. “I guess that could work. I don’t know. You couldn’t have connected it to anything. Not back in, what, ’99? 2000?”

Draco took a long sip of water and watched the flush creep up Harry’s neck. Whether it was from the peppers or the pornography, he wasn’t sure. Either way, he took credit for it.

“There was a long cord that went out the back of the cottage, across a field, to a petrol station, if that helps. The old man that owned it always gave me homemade pickles. And not pickled cucumbers. Pickled… everything. And vodka. And magazines of naked women. Russia is an interesting place, Harry,” Draco drawled, satisfied with his own emotional evasion. 

“Falk managed to get functional dial-up at Durmstrang?” Harry muttered, more to himself than to Draco.

“Dial-up! That’s the word!” Draco shouted. “The thing that goes _eee eee deedle deedle skreeeeeeeel kkkkkkssssshhhhuurrrrr dnrrrr dnrrrr rrrrr pshhhhhh_.”

Harry sobbed suddenly, and Draco cringed. Shouldn’t have had that pepper, Draco thought.

Wiping tears from his eyes, Potter took a deep breath and erupted in guffaws. “Bloody hell,” he wheezed. “Make that sound for Hermione sometime. Please.” He took a deep breath and wiped his eyes again. “Oh, Godric.”

Stifling a smile, he replied, “I guess I will. It’s easier as an eagle, actually. But eagles don’t appreciate it. Not that Magnus did, either. _Obnoxious_ , apparently.”

“I’m getting the impression he was easily annoyed. And that maybe what he showed me was inaccurate.” Harry paused to collect several more peppers and scoop them to the side of the container. Lesson learned, apparently. “And I didn’t see a computer in your cottage in any of it.”

Draco nudged rice around, appetite rapidly waning. Unpalatable topics of conversation were certainly dominating the menu. “We only had the computer for a few weeks. Maybe a month.”

“Didn’t work?” Harry asked around another incendiary mouthful.

“He got rid of it.” Draco said quietly, threading rings of green onion on his fork tines.

Harry scoffed and bit the end off one of the deadly peppers. “He went to all that work and just binned it?”

“Uhm, yeah,” Draco muttered, settling the lid on his container. “I asked how Muggles record video, and he told me I already had enough vices. It was gone in the morning.”

“Cruel,” he replied. One word. One exhale. And Draco’s breath hitched at the brevity. Perhaps Magnus had been exceptionally brusque. Judgmental. A little harsh. But cruel? 

Draco shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.”

“No,” Harry said, scraping out the last of the curry. “I think you and I know cruelty when we see it, Draco.”

With that, Potter rose to clear the debris from the coffee table, leaving Draco alone with his thoughts; least favorite of companions. 

————————————

Harry crushed the empty containers into the bin with a scowl. Collaborating with Falk for the Wizengamot trial had been downright enjoyable, but the tidbits that slipped out of Draco about him were worrying.

“Beer would be much appreciated if you have any, Potter,” Draco said over his shoulder. Too softly, Harry thought. He was too quiet when he asked for things. 

“We split the last one. All I’ve got is…” Harry opened the refrigerator and slid Draco’s leftovers inside with a frown. He’d hardly eaten anything. “A little orange juice, a bottle of vodka, and ice. I could throw a screwdriver together. It’d have to be a strong one, though.”

“No, thanks.”

Harry turned to look at him. Platinum hair rested against the black futon cushion; window-framed street lights cut angles in the dark background. A film noir poster brought to life. The sharp-tongued blonde with the dubious ex-lover. The hard-boiled detective in a trench coat. The long list of things they wanted to say and needed to hear. The eroding list of excuses not to.

“Not in a hard-drinking mood?” Harry asked casually, mixing a drink for himself, instead.

“Honestly?” Draco said, barely above a whisper. “In a spectacularly hard-drinking mood. So, no. Water’s fine.”

Harry hummed in acknowledgment and sat back on his side of the futon. Metal arms weren’t made to recline against, and Hermione’s offer of throw pillows came to mind.

“Draco?” Harry hesitantly asked, taking a sip from his glass. Too-wide grey eyes turned to him, head still laying atop the back of the futon. His thin chest rose and fell shallowly under his shirt. “I’ve run out of pleasant conversation topics, but I’ll let you pick.”

Draco nodded vacantly, and Harry wondered if this was really the best course of action. He looked like Harry had felt when Ron had made him talk about his attraction to men. It had been awful, but he’d been immediately better for it.

“We can discuss our living arrangement, because I _will_ eventually wank in your house. But it’s _your_ house.” That earned him a thin smile from Malfoy, so he continued. 

“We can talk about Liore’s investigation. You’re allowed to know everything we’re doing.” Draco nodded thoughtfully. 

“We can talk about what the fuck’s going to happen when Narcissa is released in two weeks.” The faint smile disappeared, and Draco’s face drooped. 

“Or, my personal least favorite, we can chit chat about our… whatever we’re doing. Our not-dating,” Harry said, grimacing at his own poor explanation. “You pick.”

Draco cleared his throat twice and swallowed thickly. “You forgot some. The twins. Offers from Delphi and Kos.”

“Fine, I’ll pick,” Harry offered. Malfoy shrugged lethargically in response. “I choose… Narcissa. Probably the most pressing issue.”

“Pretty sure the wanking etiquette will come into play first, Potter. Two weeks is a stretch.” Draco attempted a weak smile and failed. “I’m not worried about her. According to the… Hall of Prophecy, I won’t see either of them again.”

“You believe it?” Harry tried to hide his incredulity behind his glass.

Draco’s lips tightened in a tight light while he thought. “Yes. I don’t know how or why, but Narcissa won’t be an issue.”

“Alright, you pick the next one,” Harry said, draining his glass. Far be it from him to question a Seer.

“May I add to the selections?” Draco asked, and waited for Harry’s nod of approval. 

“Alright. Why didn’t you just let me have the six months of extra parole? Why didn’t you let them send me to Azkaban so you could work on Liore’s investigation? Just… _why_ to all of it?” he rambled breathlessly, fire returning to his gaze.

“That’s an easy one,” Harry said, crossing his legs on the cushion. “Parolees can’t adopt, and I think you would have died under mysterious circumstances in Azkaban. I don’t need to be on-site for the investigation unless something happens. And if it does, you can go with me or stay home with one of the Aurors I trust.”

Draco huffed softly in surprise. “Then I’m claiming a second turn. Liore.”

“You’re going to take all the easy topics, huh?” Harry accused with a smile.

“Subjective.” Draco turned and bent one leg up against the back of the futon, hands in his lap.

Harry nodded and tried to not focus on the other man’s trousers pulled tight across his groin. “The plan this week involves funneling a massive _Revelio_ through Molly to focus on that blanket she gave Narcissa. She said she used charmed needles to do all the work, so with several dozen witches and a couple wizards who knit, we might be able to find it. 

I just think it’ll end up being important. But then if that doesn’t work… you’re sure you want to know?”

Draco shrugged. “Between Magnus and the Pensieve, you’ve practically licked the inside of my skull, Potter. Shock me.”

“A five-coven _Mobilcorpus_. Rose garden first. Wider gardens after that. Then the Manor lawn,” Harry explained, idly picking pilled fuzz off his socks. It sounded even more horrific out loud.

Draco stared at him, grey eyes hard and cheeks flushed. “You’re going to raise every fucking corpse on that property.” A statement, not a question, Harry noticed. “ _Emmerdeur_.”

“There shouldn’t _be_ any corpses on that property,” Harry said candidly. “Sure would be a shame if we couldn’t find Liore but had to let Lucius rot in Azkaban while we investigated all those other bodies.”

A wry smile turned Draco’s mouth. “Devious, Potter. Your turn. _Two_ turns.” He leaned his shoulder against the futon back and let his head rest against it.

“I choose Delphi, Kos, and twins. Counts as both my turns,” Harry teased.

“Fine. Twins. There’s fucking twins. In a Rusalka. In a river. In fucking Slovenia.” Draco blew out a deep breath, eyes wide. “I shouldn’t have added that as an option, because I don’t really have anything to say about it. Just a lot of creative swearing.”

“Fair enough. Delphi and Kos, then.” Maybe it was a touch of cowardice on his part to choose the lightest topics first, but it seemed to be serving its purpose. Malfoy had gone from sitting bolt upright staring vacantly at darkened windows to snuggling his side up against the futon and talking about babies. Surely, that was an improvement.

“I might spend the winter in Greece,” he said, gaze distant. “Especially Kos. Nothing like a Mediterranean island in January. Or maybe late winter and meet Magnus in Slovenia in spring,” he continued, palms skating down the fabric over his thighs. 

An anxious gesture, Harry had noticed. It hadn’t really occurred to him that Malfoy couldn’t consider his future options without taking the twins into account.

“A reverse-honeymoon,” Harry offered with a soft smile. “Vacation alone and come back with kids.”

Harry didn’t love the idea of him being gone for a whole season. His first thought was to offer to tag along, but the idiocy of it curtailed the words. He couldn’t take a vacation as a new Head Auror. And why would Malfoy want him there, anyway?

Draco nodded, “Very unromantic. Blood and guts, doom and gloom, and _then_ the spectacle of Rusalka childbirth.”

“Romantic. Your turn, Dad.”

“Potter? Never. And I mean, _ever_ , call me that again.” His words were sharp, but his voice was remarkably tender. “I think we’re just down to the wanking, and as long as you don’t ruin the hearth rug, I couldn't care less where or when you have at it.”

“Good to know,” Harry said hesitantly. “But it’s not just… We’re not…”

Harry took a steadying breath. “We’re not friends,” he blurted. Draco’s face dropped a touch. “I mean… We’re not _just_ friends. We’re not boys ignoring each other’s wanking in a dormitory.”

The scathing curry threatened to come up, and he busied himself with a sip of melted ice from his glass. Draco simply watched him, brow knit slightly in thought.

“I mean, shit, maybe _you_ can ignore it, but I fucking can’t.” Harry took a deep breath and looked away. It should have been a relief to have it out in the open, but he wasn’t sure he’d actually gotten his point across.

“No, you’re right, Harry.” Draco’s hands rested on the cushion in front of him, thumbs rubbing and erasing streaks in the fabric. “I can’t today… I’m not…” He grimaced and shook his head at his own failure. “I’m just… not okay.”

“No shit,” Harry huffed. “Yesterday, was a bit of a shit show, and now you’ve got a flatmate with a tendency to _Potter about_ , as you put it.”

Harry thought he'd earned at least a chuckle, but a shuddering inhale shook Draco’s frame. He looked up and raised eyebrows in acknowledgement. “It was awful," he joked weakly. "Two of the truffles had marshmallow in them.”

“Insult to injury,” Harry replied softly.

Draco hummed in agreement. “Give me a couple days, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Screwing up his courage, he slid his hands over Draco’s. They were ice cold, and Harry’s chest ached with an impotent urge to fix it. “I think I’m done _Pottering about_. And I'm sorry.”

“Apology accepted. And this is officially a date.” His half-hearted smirk almost reached his eyes. “Might even take you home, watch you cover my table in my family’s misdeeds and let you stink up my couch.”

“I don’t-” Harry stuck his nose in his armpit and took a long whiff. “Alright, yeah, maybe I should shower before we go back to yours.”

Draco’s silver gaze lit up in a carefully placid face as his thumbs ran cool lines along Harry’s.

“Want to watch?” Harry offered, trying to ignore the blush across his cheeks.

 _I want you to see what the thought of you does to my body_ was what he meant, but felt a bit grand for the situation. _I’m done pretending I don’t want you_ felt like too much of a confession.

Draco wetted his bottom lip and pulled it under, not meeting Harry’s gaze.

“Do you _want_ me to watch?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.” Draco’s hands slid out and covered Harry’s, finally warm. Dove-grey eyes looked up in quiet anticipation. “It’ll make quite the Quibbler article, you know.”

Harry frowned in confusion.

“ _Cock Ness Monster Sighted in London._ ”

—————————————

Posiedon, god of the sea, stood behind the glass door of a steaming shower, water cascading down the planes and grooves of his body, but Draco Malfoy was the one drowning. And not in a pleasant way.

The Malfoy Maelstrom, he’d named it, was winding up. Not surprising, given yesterday’s events, but it had been so long that he had been fanning a fickle flame of hope that it wouldn’t happen again.

Some kind of toxic sludge of an excuse for shampoo cascaded down Harry’s shoulders, and Draco was grateful the other man’s eyes were closed. Not that he could see Draco well through the steam, glass, and what he’d always assumed was a considerable astigmatism.

Lucky, that. Because instead of enthusiastically wanking, he was sitting on the bathroom floor contemplating the _What ifs_ and waiting for the snap.

_Snap snap pitter pat_

His breath caught and he exhaled in resignation. _Putain de border de merde_. It was coming fast.

At least he’d made it through a coherent conversation with Potter not noticing. The last few hours were always dodgy; nonsense coming out between thoughts, vacant stares, twitches. All terribly attractive and put-together. Sexy sexy squall in a suit.

_Squall fall down, ground to ground_

He took a long shuddering inhale and checked on Potter. Demonstrably soaping up his backside. His very lovely backside that really should have been more enticing.

_Ticing, splicing, rending, bending heaven forfending_

Thirty minutes, probably. Thirty minutes for Potter to finish, pack, get home, and then he could let the tempest break him. It wouldn’t be so bad once he stopped fighting.

_Once was a girl, a right little churl, there in her middle was a warhead_

His vision flickered, and the patter of shower water turned to the clatter of nails on a corrugated roof. Potter was outside in a hail of shrapnel. Gods, this was going to be a bad one.

_Pat-a-cake, mat-a-make, mother’s druthers ovens bake_

He shook his head to clear the image, and Harry was wiping the condensation off the inside of the shower door. Draco scrubbed his face with a nearby hanging towel. Whether the sweat was from this tidy little breakdown or the shower, it was hard to tell.

“Awfully quiet out there.” Potter wasn’t watching him, but must have stopped to examine his audience.

“A hushed awe, Auror mine.” His teeth had found his cuticles. An old habit to keep the screaming in his head contained. Breathe in over knuckles, exhale over fine hairs. Feel how they move in the wind. Again.

_C’est con, all gone, nothing left to build upon_

Fingers shook against his lips, and he bit down on a knuckle to hold it in place. Too hard. Too good. That way lay danger.

_Stop! Drop! Once more, from the Top!_

He looked down to assess his own bite mark, but the imprints were leaking ink down his finger. Jet black rivulets streamed down his hand and plopped thickly on the tile between his legs. He wiped the finger on his trousers and it left a silver streak.

_Try me, fry me, do or die me, die me, die me, DIE DIE ME_

The silver streak condensed to a fine chain with a filigree clasp. Very pretty. And the ink had stopped flowing. Potter was back out in the shrapnel rain, but he didn’t seem to care. And that was fine. He’d come in if it were a hard rain.

_Raspberry, strawberry, pussy jam tart,  
Scream out the name of your sweet heart_

“Draco?” Harry stood in front of him, come in out of the rain, dripping wet, glasses in hand.

“I see London, I see France. Harry Potter’s got no pants,” he sang with a smirk. “Did I get ink on your floor?”

“Uhm, no, there’s nothing on the floor but your fully-clothed ass.” Harry squatted down to eye-level and scrutinized him. “You weren’t kidding when you said you weren’t okay. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Draco grunted in response, or he was pretty sure he did. Might have been a chortle.

_You’re a little sexpot, short and stout  
Come and play while mummy’s out_

“Harry?” he croaked. “I need to go home. I’m sorry.”

Potter responded in Parseltongue, and Draco frowned. Unhelpful. A snake was petting his hair, and that was patently ridiculous.

“Hey.” Harry’s hands were in his hair, pointing his face at those green eyes. “Lay down. Give me five minutes.”

Hot hands pressed him down into a mound of towels. So hot, hot hands, hot room, hot tomb.

_London’s churning, London’s yearning  
Let the ends win, get revenge in  
Dire pyre! Pyre dire!  
Chop off trotters, pigs to slaughter.  
London’s burning, London’s returning_

“Hey. I need you to think about home so you don’t get splinched.”

_London’s churning, London’s yearning  
Let the ends win, get revenge in  
Dire pyre! Pyre dire!  
Chop off trotters, pigs to slaughter.  
London’s burning, London’s burning, London’s burning BURNING BURNING BURNING_

“London’s burning.” Potter had a rucksack on his back and terror writ across his face. Probably afraid of the fire. “Fiendfyre.” 

“Shit.”

Even the tiles were hot. They were sweating. Tiles couldn’t sweat. Unless they weren’t tiles.

“Fuck it. Draco.” Harry’s voice broke through the crackle of fire. “What’s on the shelf next to your bed right now?”

“Oh, lots of things. Fireproof things, but I think the pearls would burn if-“

With a crack and a lurch, he was tumbling onto his bed from several feet above. Cool sheets assaulted his face, and he Vanished his clothes.

He hummed his approval as the fluffy comforter skimmed up his skin. Cool sheets, soft bed.

He sighed and let the Maelstrom take him.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Essence of Daffodil

Can I tell you a secret?  
I’ve invented a new curse.  
You hold your wand as such,  
Take one deep breath, then wish.

The words are simple verse,  
You just sigh and say “What if…?”  
This curse, it seeks its caster’s touch,  
Only he can feel its sting.

But if he does it well enough,  
He’ll dwell on _everything._

DLM 2007 London  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	27. Maelstrom Tidewrack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The smut only increases from here on out.**
> 
> Draco's broken. Harry texts everyone who cares about Draco for guidance. Pansy rips him a new one. Falk is clinically helpful. Luna knows way more than Harry picks up on.
> 
> Hermione and Ron are kind of cute and respect boundaries.
> 
> Draco has an epic dream followed by a middle of the night confession.
> 
> Harry has a lot of feelings about this. Scared feelings and happy feelings and all the big feelings.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Here and There and Neverwhere

Coo-coo-ca-choo!  
Where’s the Master of the House?  
He might be off the deep end,  
Now that his tenure’s through.

“Ugh, you stupid wanker!  
Why don’t you install a Floo?”  
Cuz only you can see me,  
But sometimes I can’t look at you.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

_Schools of fish merged and split, merged and split. Endless combinations, innumerable reshufflings. Infinite school. Forever and ever and ever and never ever._

_Fish and trench coats and robes and tickets and exhaust and fish and chips and chips and cards. Cards. Cards. Cards. Cards. Snap!_

_Scaled air raid, shimmer shimmy shake parade. Tickertape. Tick. Tick. Ticker. Ticker. Tickering. Bickering. Snicker. Fee fi fo fick fick fickering. Nick nick nickering._

———————————————

**Malfoy’s been in bed since the night before last.**

_It’s a nice bed, HEAD AUROR POTTER. I’ve spent whole weekends in it. He’ll run out of ink or books eventually._

**He didn’t take any with him.  
He’s just been laying there for two days, ‘Mione.**

_Uh… Is he sick?_  
_Stupid question. Healer._

**Hasn’t eaten anything, either.**

_That’s not good. Want me and Ron to come over? We’re not busy._

**He shook his head, so I guess not.  
I don’t know what to do.**

_Maybe call Pansy? Luna has her number._

**Ok.**

———————————————

_Ssssssectumsempra, sectumtempra  
Ssssseptum indentia, orthodontia  
You said you won’t, but you will, won’t ya?_

———————————————

“You think we should go over, ‘Mione?”

She scratched Crookshanks under his chin, much to his enjoyment. “He won’t let us in the wards if he doesn’t want us there.”

“Good point. Any idea what’s wrong with him?” Crookshanks rolled over between them on the bed, belly bared. She kept her lips tight as Ron’s hand drifted down to the fuzzy proffered tummy, oblivious to the teeth and claws at the ready.

“Probably having a bit of a meltdown after the Wizengamot horror show.” His hand threaded through cream-colored fur, absently rubbing circles. The damned cat had the nerve to pur and _look at her_. Favoritism.

“Two days without food is more than a bit.”

“Yeah. I don’t like it,” Ron decided. “Text Harry in the morning, and we’ll go over. I’ll bring Mum if I have to.”

“Ooh, the heavy artillery,” she mocked. It was true, though. Molly would catapult baked goods the half-mile from the wards to his front door till he responded. “And speaking of things that fire multiple rounds in rapid succession…”

He clutched his hands to his naked chest in feigned modesty. “Ms. Granger, I do believe you invited me here under false pretenses.” He gestured to Crookshanks. “I took my clothes off as instructed, and am enjoying this lovely pussy.”

“I never offered you pussy. I was planning on seeing how far down my throat I could get your cock and still breath. For science,” she said primly. “And because I’m on my period.”

“Well,” Ron huffed, “turns out I’m on my don’t-fuckin-care-iod. Knickers off!”

“Are you sure?” She tried to hide her interest behind incredulity while shooing Crookshanks out of the room.

He rolled his eyes so hard his whole head rotated. “Might turn my pubes red. I may never recover from the shock.”

Her snort startled Crookshanks, who took off for his safe haven under the couch. “How about in the shower?”

“Last one in has to wash their own arse!”

———————————————

_Ssssssskitter skitter skitterrrrrrr…  
Äislking a ding ding! Hah!  
Winner winnnnnnner piquant dinner…  
Prissy Cisssssssy  
Missy sisssssy_

———————————————

Harry watched him mutter, eyes vacant. Nothing he said was intelligible. Most of it wasn’t even words, and it was all nothing short of terrifying. He’d run out of nervous tears that morning, dry, burning eyes taking their place.

Every once in a while, a chill slid over his eyes while Draco’s were closed. Those moments tended to be when he’d take water. It was something.

———————————————

**Hey, can you send me Pansy’s number?  
Draco’s sick or something.**

_of course!!!  
we have piles of dried dittanettle if you need some! he can go a bit middle head  
im reading about muggle passports and its very exciting!  
did pansys mobile number come through?_

**Yeah, got it.  
Thanks.**

_no problem!!!  
let me know if you need anything!_

———————————————

“I figured you’d wait till afterward to scrub that, ‘Mione.” Ron tipped his head back and rinsed out his hair. “I know it’s your favorite part of me, but honestly. Greedy witch.”

Her hands reluctantly left his groin and let the water sluice down to rinse away the suds.

“It’s not my favorite part.”

He ruffled his hair under the water one last time and looked at her, careful to block the spray with his back. Apparently, getting a Harpy’s hair wet was practically a crime. Punishable by a wet slap to the ass.

“Bollocks.” He took a step closer, letting the water hit between his shoulder blades. Muggles knew what they were doing with water pressure, he had to admit.

“Nope, not those, either.” Slick hands slid up his chest, and he shivered despite the heat. “Sappy, but I do like the head on your shoulders better.”

“Aww,” he cooed. “Figures. Put Granger in hot water and she gets all mushy.” Those slick hands found his nipples and pinched. _Hard._ He squealed and backed up, pulling her into the spray.

“I was going to say your freckles, you twat,” she hissed, backing up and relinquishing her grip. Her hand wrapped around his length and led him forward back out of the water. “You have a surprising amount of freckles where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“All my nude sunbathing has paid off, then.” He slid hands around her waist and pulled her close as his eyes scanned over the white walls. “I’ve never had sex in a shower. And frankly, I’m a little worried I’ll go arse over appetite and take you down with me.”

She hummed in consideration, hands drifting back to his cock. “We’re going to run out of hot water soon, too.”

“Damn Muggle plumbing.”

“I believe I shall ride this lovely cock on the bathroom floor, then hop back in the shower. For actual bathing purposes.”

“Well,” he huffed, feigning offense, “how can I turn down such a romantic offer?”

———————————————

_un deux trois, baise moi?  
merdasssssssse married asssssss  
huffle puffle and blew my house down down drowned down  
trois deux un and come to passssss_

———————————————

“Draco?”

A soft grunt responded. “I’m texting Pansy. Want her to come over?”

Two soft grunts to the negative. Shit.

———————————————

**Hey, it’s Harry.  
Potter.**

_What’s up, Head Borer?_

**Malfoy’s been in bed for two days just laying there.**

_Well, fuck. When’s the last time he ate?_

**He picked at dinner the night before last.**

_Booze? Pills?_

**Said something about wanting to drink a lot and then didn’t drink anything.**

_Good boy.  
When’s the last time you tried to feed him?_

**Well, night before last, I guess.**

_FEED HIM YOU FUCKING IMBECILE!  
DID YOU THINK YOU COULD RIP OUT HIS BLOODY SOUL IN A COURTROOM, SHOW IT TO THE WORLD, AND HE’D JUST POP BACK HOME AND BAKE PIES????_

**Oh.**

_OH INDEED YOU FUCKING BELLEND  
I’M COMING OVER_

**He said no.  
Or grunted it.  
From under blankets.**

_FINE BUT I’M GOING TO KICK. YOUR. ASS.  
WANDS AT DAWN. YULE.  
DEAD SERIOUS._

**I’ll put it on my calendar.  
What should I feed him?  
And what’s wrong with him?**

_Sugar, then starch, then protein.  
WHAT’S WRONG WITH HIM? DIAGON’S COMBUSTING ON HIS BEHALF WHILE HE’S LOCKED UP WITH AN AUROR._

**He doesn’t know about the chaos yet.  
Doesn’t read the papers.  
And I’m not some random Auror.**

_Worse.  
You’re Auror POTTER._

**What’s that supposed to mean?**

_You hate him and he knows it._

**Do not.**

_Sure._

**We’re kind of dating?**

_WHAT?!  
THEN YOU’RE A SHITTY BOYFRIEND PLUS A SHITTY AUROR_

**Thanks.  
Been a great first couple of days on boyfriend duty.**

_Ah. Sorry. That sucks.  
If he won’t eat anything, text the Swede.  
He dealt with worse._

**Awkward.  
But ok.  
Thanks.**

_Let me know if he changes his mind about guests.  
I can be there ASAP.  
Good luck._

———————————————

Don’t tell her you love her, Ron thought to himself. Do _NOT_ tell Hermione Granger you love her and you’re in love with her and maybe you’ve always loved her. Not while she’s sliding herself down onto your cock so slowly you could cry. Do _NOT_ do that. Oh, Godric’s gonads. Do. Not. Do. That.

Hands skimmed up his chest and flicked his nipples. She shot him a wicked grin and let her weight drop onto his hips, pulling a low groan and thrust from him.

Oh, Gods, Ron thought, _Don’t say it. Don’t say it._ She would be the first, and probably only woman he’d ever say those words to, and damned if he was ever going to tell his grandchildren he’d said it while she rode his dick on a bathroom floor. No. The grandson of a Thestral courtship would _not_ pretend he didn’t remember how he’d professed his love when asked by his descendants. Absolutely not.

“Ron, are you alright?” A cloud of damp chestnut frizz hovered over his face, worried brown and gold eyes examining him. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

Lovesick, he mused. “I’m having entirely too good a time, actually.” He slid a hand between them to rub her clit, and her hips started moving again. Slowly, her eyes drifted shut, and she pulled her bottom lip under in concentration.

“Fuck, Ron,” she whispered. Heat pooled low in his hips as he felt her start to tighten around him. “Fuck, fuck fuck,” she chanted as she moved.

With a soft growl, she ground down against him and climaxed in a throaty groan that made his body tense and follow hers. He throbbed inside her as her core gripped him, clenching and unclenching with the soft sway of her hips.

She dropped to her elbows above him briefly before flopping her full weight on his chest, legs splayed on either side of his waist. The thicket of curls tickled his nose, and he nuzzled into them as she sighed.

“Mine.”

———————————————

_round and round a pound a pound  
ssssskin, skinnnnn ‘em for a six pence  
pease porridge hot pease porridge hot  
please porridge please porridge ready or not_

———————————————

“Draco?”

Nothing. Not even a grunt. Harry’s fingers threaded through salt-roughened blond hair. He’d stopped sweating that morning, but was still hot to the touch.

His eyes flicked back and forth erratically behind his eyelids, and Harry hated it. Like his eyes were intentionally refusing to open and look at him.

Harry had been sitting next to Draco’s bed in a dining chair off and on for two days and was running out of options. Draco’s throat moved like he was talking constantly, but the murmuring had ceased to reach his lips.

“Draco, I really don’t want to text Falk. Go on and tell me not to.”

Nothing.

“Fine,” he sighed.

———————————————

_Boneyard, yard of bones  
Lights all on and no one home  
Knock knock knock knock it all down  
Wiltshire burrrrrning, burning, burn it all down  
Dancing in ash, floor beams crash  
No one home only one in the yard of bones_

———————————————

**Draco’s been in bed for two days.  
Won’t eat.  
Please advise.**

_Drunk?_

**No.  
Declined, actually.**

_Promising.  
Give him another night.  
Seer sickness, most likely._

**WTF is that???**

_A sickness that afflicts Seers._

**Mind-blowing.**

_He’ll probably have a dream tonight.  
A major one, by the sound of it.  
And be either much better or much worse come morning.  
Depends on the dream._

**But what do I DO?**

_Whatever he’ll let you.  
Text me if he doesn’t have the dream and gets violent._  
_Good luck._

**Thanks. I guess.**

———————————————

_Next stop, hexed cop  
Scary airy black mop  
Architect in circumspect  
Progenitor and senator and go go go get yours_

———————————————

_The platform was loud. So loud. Children ran about shrieking and hugging. Friends who’d spent the summer apart, finally reunited._

_Adults clapped each other on the back in fond hello and wiped away tears as children boarded the train. Clusters of families and friends merged, separated, and met again. Parents, suddenly free, grouped together and made plans._

_Pints! Shopping! Yes, let’s go!_

_Draco stood voiceless and alone in the swirling crowd. Four tickets sat heavy in his hand, and anxiety tightened his chest. What was he supposed to do here?_

_A trunk thudded down next to him, and he turned. Potter levitated another three and settled them in a stack with a flick of his wand. He tried to get Harry’s attention, but couldn’t speak._

_Draco stared at him. Potter wasn’t supposed to be in these dreams. The girl with his eyes was, but not Potter. Where was she? Where were all four of them?_

_He wanted to shout their names, but he came up blank. He’d never spoken in these dreams at all. Could he speak?_

_He cupped his hands around his mouth. There was a tri-colored band around his ring finger. Odd, but he brushed it off and took a deep breath._

_“_ Mes oisillons! _” he bellowed, then gasped at the echo of his own voice._

_The crowd didn’t react, but a tinkle of mischievous laughter caught his ear and tugged at his chest. Potter’s hand extended in front of Draco. He wore a different, but similar ring. He pointed out a group of children sitting on the pavement in a tight circle._

_A shaggy auburn head rose from the huddle to glare at him with a roll of chocolate-brown eyes. He bent back down and two heads of dark brown hair popped up to glance at him furtively before crouching back down. A single green eye surrounded by a fall of black ringlets edged out from behind another child and ducked back in._

_Potter sighed heavily next to him, “They’re going to lose their sweets money before they get on the blasted train.”_

_Startled, Draco turned to stare at him. Potter stepped closer and went on tiptoe to lay a peck on his chin._

_“I’ll drag them out of the den of iniquity. Watch the trunks.”_

_Draco watched him stride up to the huddle as he withdrew something from his back pocket. A badge or identification card of some kind. Harry brandished it and barked something with a grin. Several reacted by scrabbling away with terror-stricken faces._

_A whistle pipped twice, and Harry hustled children to their feet. Striding back with four shirkers in tow, he withdrew his wand and levitated the trunks into the baggage hold of a train car._

_The four of them milled around him in various states of annoyance and humming anxiety. They were so_ grown _. The boy with dark brown hair and black eyes was nearly his height, but built like a willow. Hands in his pockets, his attention was on his passing classmates more than his family._

_The Rusalka girl came up to Harry’s chin and already had a young woman’s body. She was nervously talking to Harry, and he murmured something soothing to her. With waves and mumbled goodbyes to both of them, the twins turned and headed for a train car._

_They spoke in hushed tones as they walked, and he wanted to call them back just to hear their voices. Pieces of words floated back to him like the slap of incoming tide against rocks. The girl said something to her brother when they neared the train, and his head tilted back in an awkward braying laugh. She grinned madly as he doubled over cackling, and they turned and entered the train, arms linked._

_He turned and saw the auburn-haired boy in front of him. He avoided Draco’s gaze and shuffled his feet nervously before darting in and giving him a hug. Draco’s arms reflexively wrapped around the boy, and sturdy shoulders relaxed under his arms. He rested his chin on the boy’s hair and drew a deep breath as the child released him. He smelled of sugar and wind. The boy stepped over to Harry for another hug._

_Tears streamed down the raven-haired girl’s cheeks, and she looked up at him with wavering emerald eyes. She was small for her age, but held herself with the intensity of a little lightning storm._

_A nervous hand beckoned him lower. He dropped to a knee so she could look down at him. She stepped in and pressed against his chest, warm and solid, but trembling slightly._

_“Papa, what if the hat doesn’t like me?” she whispered into his ear._

_Her voice tinkled like birdsong on a frozen morning. He blinked tears from his eyes and swallowed the lump in his throat before daring to answer her._

_He looked around and pretended to scan for eavesdroppers. “You tell that ugly old hat to do its job or you’ll give it head lice. It’s not very smart, and it owes me a favor.”_

_With a grin and a nod, she hugged his head and kissed his hair before releasing him to give Harry a bear hug around his waist. The twins hollered from the door of a train car and waved the younger two to hurry._

_“Go on, _mes oisillons_ ,” he urged. “Home by snow.”_

_They hopped through the doorway and the twins turned to follow them. He watched them through the windows as they greeted other children and eventually chose seats near one another._

_Harry’s arm circled Draco’s waist, and he swallowed a surprised yip._

_“You worry too much, Dray,” he said as his hand slid up Draco’s back to pull his head down onto Harry’s shoulder. “They’ll be fine.”_

_Harry’s jumper was coarse against his lips as he drew deep breaths in through the fabric. Scents of home overwhelmed him; browned butter, coffee, and teakwood._

_This dream was too much, Draco thought, as tears soaked into Harry’s shirt. It was all absolutely too much. The children. Harry. All of it._

_Harry’s hand pressed Draco’s face onto the top of his shoulder, and Draco let his arms drift around Harry’s waist. A sob broke from Draco’s throat, and a tight whine followed as he tried to maintain control._

_Harry’s lips pressed against his temple, and his composure broke. Ragged sobs wrenched from his throat and he clung to Harry. He came up for air and Harry pushed him back down. Strong arms circled his shoulders and held him tight as he smothered a groaning howl against the other man._

_“Shh, Dray,” Harry whispered as his sobs turned into tight, shuddering breaths. “Home by snow.”_

———————————————

Draco woke. Slowly, this time. 

His throat seized, breath hitched, and he rolled over to smother the tight whine in his pillow. He clutched the cool fabric as heaving sobs wracked through him. 

It was a poor substitute.

———————————————

Harry frowned and looked around for his alarm clock before remembering where he was. It was either very late or very early, but it was an obnoxious hour to be awake. He was surprised he’d been able to doze off at all, though.

Malfoy’s shuffling form drifted between Harry’s futon and the fireplace. Probably on his way from the kitchen, Harry thought as he rolled over. He caught a faint whiff of garlic and sesame oil, and relaxed a touch. Must have eaten, then.

Eyes closed, he sighed, relieved, and tucked the blankets up around his chin. Bloody cold in a stone room at night. 

The futon dipped behind him, and he frowned as the blanket whipped back and the other man slid underneath. Harry groped around on the floor and found his glasses. Hopping into bed together was a bit of a leap, but at least they were clothed.

He rolled onto his back to examine Draco. Gaunt cheekbones caught the moonlight, the salt of dried tears glittering weakly on the skin above them. 

“Bad dream?” Harry cringed at his own question. 

Blond hair fell over Draco’s face as he rolled on his side to look at Harry, and he brushed it back with an annoyed turn of his lips. He’d brought his own pillow into Harry’s bed. Presumptive.

“No," he rasped. “Just… heavy.” His voice sounded like he’d been screaming himself hoarse. Or burned his lungs out in a fire.

Harry resigned himself to wakefulness. The odds of him going back to sleep with Draco in his bed with him were non-existent. He was entirely too close. And too warm. And a touch ethereal in the moonlight.

“Kind of scared the shit out of me, by the way.”

Merlin’s arse, he thought, was it an understatement. If he’d have lost Draco right on the heels of finally, _finally_ having a slip of a chance with him, he wasn’t sure he’d have ever recovered. The burst of hope at a distant gold glint in the sun would make anyone seek a Snitch to madness. Far more than one who’d felt its hum and lost their grasp. 

To have almost known and never held would have haunted him forever. But it still could, he supposed.

“Me, too. If it’s any consolation.” Draco’s eyes glistened, and his throat worked to swallow down a sob.

“Seer dream?”

Draco nodded faintly, and Harry wondered what the etiquette was about these things.

“Want to talk about it?” Harry offered, despite his rather strong desire to not discuss prophetic dreams.

“Not really.” Barely a whisper, eyes still trained on Harry.

“Okay, then,” he mumbled, “Let me know if-

“I love you.”

Harry’s breath stopped, and he turned to look at Draco. Surely, he’d misheard.

“What?” Harry whispered. 

Grey eyes glowing with silver moonlight watched him and blinked slowly.

“I love you,” he repeated unflinchingly, voice thick. 

A dozen responses stuttered through Harry’s mind, and he drew a breath to speak. Draco’s hand slid across the blanket, and two soft fingers pressed down on Harry’s lips. 

“Shh. Don’t say anything. Not yet.” His voice was gentle, but sure. “I just want you to know.”

Warm, smooth fingertips lifted from Harry’s lips too soon. He caught Draco’s wrist and pressed the fingers back to his lips in acceptance. 

Truly, he wasn’t sure what he would have said. Every response that came to mind felt reflexive and hasty. 

Harry nodded and reluctantly removed Draco’s fingertips from his lips. He clutched the hand to his chest rather than relinquish it. A broad, toothy grin slowly spread across the other man’s face, and Harry found himself reflecting the unabashed joy.

Quiet tears ran down the side of Draco’s nose, and he wiped his face on his pillow. He sniffled, then sighed as he relaxed into the futon next to Harry. They each scooted a hair closer, bodies not touching. Not yet. Not tonight.

Harry laid both of his hands over the one on his chest. It didn’t matter, he thought, why it had happened like this. It didn’t matter if anyone ever found out, or what they thought when they did. It didn’t matter how long it lasted or when it started, or where it went. 

Not really.

———————————————

“Psst! Harpy.” Ron whispered in the dark room. The damn Kneazle was purring on top of his feet. Hermione grumbled next to him. “Harry’s texting you, but I can’t read it.”

“S’locked. Give it here.” Her hand waited expectantly as he set her mobile on her palm. “Says Draco’s alright.”

Ron heaved out a deep breath and relaxed behind her. “That’s a relief.”

She hummed her agreement and set it back on her nightstand. “Gonna bake ‘em some muffins tomorrow.”

“You’re sure Harpies keep their last names?”

She gave a low warning hum that slowly trickled to a soft growl, ending in a light snore.

———————————————

Draco held his tongue as the Head Auror, the most highly-trained, well-respected figure in Magical Law Enforcement, overflowed his mug with scalding hot water for the third time that morning. Luckily, it didn’t seem to be harming the table. The Auror, however, wasn’t faring so well.

Not that Draco felt he was at his best, either. Tripping through the halls of one’s own brain for days was never a fortifying experience. And he’d spent his night dreaming, blubbering into his pillow for hours, then watching Potter sleep. But at least he could be trusted with hot liquids. Composure.

He didn’t regret his late-night confession. Not at all, which surprised him a bit. The surety of the dream lended him a certain invincibility. Silver nitrate of the heart. A cathartic debridement of the soul.

It had made for one bumbling, awkward Harry come morning, though. Before thrice drowning the table, he’d also dropped and stepped on his glasses, smashed his hand while folding the futon, tripped and fell spectacularly during a run of the wards, and nearly blown his hand off unraveling hexed owl messages.

Luckily, none of the injuries warranted Healing, and Draco was rather relieved to not have a bond between them right now. There was an excellent chance he was going to break down and wail into a pillow about that damned dream again later. Potter didn’t need to experience that through a bond.

Harry managed to get his mug to his lips, which required two hands today. The poor bastard was entirely too upset. Did his friends never tell him they loved him? Or the Weasleys? If not, when was the last time someone had?

“Potter?” Draco asked softly.

“Hmm?” he replied, looking up from his mug and feigning a measure of calm.

“You’ve been blundering around like a concussed Camelops all morning,” Draco stated gently, dulling the edge of his usual harshness.

“Didn’t get much sleep last night,” Harry replied with a smirk. “Some bloke crawled in my bed and professed his undying love to me.”

Draco scoffed, and Harry smiled as his shoulders finally relaxed.

“I definitely didn’t say _undying_ ,” Draco corrected. “I may change my mind in the afterlife.”

Harry frowned, and Draco worried he’d misjudged the idle banter. Maybe a bond with Potter would have been worth it, for all the unpredictability of his reactions. He was usually an open book, but not this morning.

“Can… can I ask you about your dream?” Harry said cautiously.

Draco looked intently at the tabletop. Rather finely-grained wood. Sturdy. 

He didn’t have words for _No, you’re not allowed to know how ferociously happy we’ll be together_ , so he settled for a half-hearted shrug.

Harry heaved a breath and spoke in a rush. “Did I die in your dream? Or you? Soon? Is that why you said that in the middle of the night?”

Draco’s jaw dropped in surprise. “No!” he shouted. “Merlin’s tits, you think I’d be making confessions instead of hemorrhaging out new wards?!”

Harry set his mug down and scrubbed his face with his hands to hide welling tears.

“ _Merde_. No. Nobody _died_.” Draco shuddered. “I haven’t dreamt of death since Durmstrang.” He huffed in surprise at his own admission. It really had been that long, and he hadn’t noticed.

“In fact,” he continued, “I haven’t dreamt of anything but puppies and kittens and sunshine in quite a long time.”

Harry drained his mug and stood. “Then why don’t you tell me about them? You’ve not only told Ron and Hermione, but shown them.”

“Only ones that pertain to them,” Draco retorted. The half-truth tasted bitter. “But I didn’t think you’d want to see them.”

“Prophecies do kind of weird me out, but you can still tell me. Did last nights’ involve me?” Harry asked, a bit of a glint in his eyes.

Draco shrugged again and picked up his mug. What Potter lacked in rapier wit he often made up with persistence, and he had no desire to go into detail about why he’d cried himself hoarse last night.

“Was it a _nice_ dream, Draco?” Harry asked, eyebrows raised.

“Mm hmm,” he admitted as a flush crept up his neck.

Would telling him about the dream alter the outcome? If he told Harry what he’d seen and Harry freaked out, would it never happen? Or was it inevitable? Would it happen no matter how hard Potter tried to prevent it?

“Did you come straight to my bed when you woke?” Potter asked.

Draco shook his head and felt his cheeks go hot. Damned nosy Auror and his damned investigation.

“Did you come in _your_ bed when you woke?”

Draco coughed tea and gasped. “What?! No, it wasn’t that kind of dream,” he retorted. “That would be a touch sleazy if it had been, wouldn’t it? Have a hot dream, a quick wank, and tell someone you love them? I’m many things, but I’m not sleazy.”

“True.” Harry nodded as he collected his dishes and wandered to the sink. “So, not sex or death? But you’re cagey as all fuck about it.”

Draco slouched in his chair and hoped Harry would drop the conversation entirely. This level of interrogation was Granger territory. Ironic, given he would have readily shared the dream with her, and probably would.

“Sentimental, then?” Harry guessed, and earned a curt nod from Draco. “And about the future?”

Another nod seemed to bolster Potter’s divination confidence. “Far in the future?”

“Fourteen years. I think. Dammit, Potter.” Draco drew a deep breath in through his nose, and sighed through pursed lips. “It involves children. Do you really want to know?”

Eyes round with worry, Harry walked back toward Draco. He suddenly looked as terrified as Draco felt. “Do they get hurt?” Harry said, barely above a whisper. “Do they die?”

“Gods, no!” Draco barked. “It was a _nice_ dream, remember? Maybe a little bittersweet, but no, none of them suffered. Well, you did embarrass them in front of their friends a bit.”

Harry grinned and rested his elbows on the table across from Draco. Intent green eyes watched him. “The twins?”

 _The_ twins. Not _your_ twins.

Draco nodded. “And their younger siblings…”

“Hm. And me?” Harry asked as he rocked slightly on his forearms. It was an eager gesture that reminded Draco of the little shoulder shimmy that appeared when he enjoyed a meal.

“And a platform,” Draco said slowly. “And a train.” 

Harry swallowed thickly and spoke to the tabletop. “Hogwarts?”

“Mm hmm,” Draco hummed.

Odd that Potter’s first question would be about where the train was going, and not why the hell there were two extra kids, or why he was embarrassing children at King’s Cross.

“I don’t know if I’d send my kids there, to be honest,” Harry admitted. “But who am I to argue with prophecy?”

 _My kids_. Frustration simmered in Draco’s throat at Potter’s blasé attitude and asinine line of questioning.

“Honestly. _That’s_ what you took away from all of this? Not why you were in a dream about sending children off to school, or why there were four of them, or where they came from?! None of _that_ interests you?! Just the academic decision-making?!”

“It’s been there on the rug for weeks, Draco.” Harry let out a long breath and stood upright. Draco sat, shocked. Harry had noticed the four tendrils in the pattern? And knew what they meant? And never bothered to mention it? Potter the fucking plotter.

“I’m going down for a bath. You’re not invited, cause you look like shit and should sit here and eat. But I can’t stop you from eavesdropping or wanking in the kitchen.” 

He winked, yanked his t-shirt over his head, and dropped it on the floor as he headed to the ladder to the spring. His trousers fell next, and he shucked his briefs and left them at the top of the ladder to descend in all his nude glory.

A splash and a pleased groan echoed up through the hole.

“Might be a loud one!”

“Tosser.”

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Gotcha

Looking down, they urged me go.  
It’s just school, be home by snow.  
Son, they’ll have you.

Captain says he plays,  
He earned his place.  
Mount up, we’ve got you.

He was born for this,  
He’ll brave the Kiss.  
Chin high, we’ve got you.

So let them get caught,  
That’s the life they’ve bought.  
Äislking, I’ve got you.

He took the bait!  
Just give it a wait…  
Fucker, we’ve got you.

_Mon Pignon_ ,  
Don’t lose your song.  
Shh, I’ve got you.

Who made a home,  
For one who roamed?  
_Mes amors_ , you’ve got me.

I can’t, she panted,  
Once more, incanted,  
Love, we’ve got you.

Looking down, I urged them go,  
It’s just school, home by snow.  
_Mes oisillons_ , I’ve got you.

DLM 2021 King’s Cross  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	28. "Say it Again?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smut returneth and will only get smuttier.
> 
> Harry realizes that when someone loves you, you can just ASK them for stuff. Yes, Harry, even SEX STUFF.
> 
> Draco realizes the amount of intentional chaos Harry Potter is capable of. And that _cock_. And the _sounds_ that man makes if you tell him you love him while you do filthy shit.
> 
> Hermione realizes these attractive men are into each other. For real. Why yes, she would love to take them up on a future invitation. In the meantime, please cat-sit while she does important Ministry things.
> 
> Ron realizes maybe he's in over his head as a criminal.
> 
> Crookshanks realizes... meow.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Ruddy

Coarse? Of course.  
I think I’d starve to watch him eat.

Coarse, of course.  
Manners, perhaps, I _could_ enforce.

Toss etiquette; slowed bites lose heat.  
Charm’s not what makes the pudding sweet.

Coarse. _Of course…_

DLM 2007 Truro Wheal Elvan  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

  
Aurors do not self-combust. They may accidentally _Incendio_ their trousers right off their own arses when a man rubs his chin on their shoulder, but they do _not_ self-combust.

Except for when they do. And Harry James Potter, Head Auror, Administrator of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Master of Death, was absolutely self-combusting while eating toast.

Or he thought he was eating toast. It may have still been bread. Could have been a smallish paperback book.

Draco Malfoy loved him. Was _in_ love with him? What was the difference? _Was_ there a difference? Was it weird that he didn’t know?

And _why_? Why did Draco love him? And for how long? When did he know?

And Draco kept _touching_ him. Ruffling his hair. Resting his chin atop his head as he passed behind Harry’s chair. Slipping an arm through his as they walked out to the owl perch. Just… _touching_ , and it was maddening in the best way.

It was incapacitating, the touching, but a little less with every casual affection. And maybe he’d screw up his courage enough to reciprocate.

———————————

Ron’s head thunked solidly against the frame of the basement Floo. What the fuck was he supposed to do with this?

Someone had dumped a mangled Griffin on his table. A gorgeous beast. The Nundu had been beautiful, as well, but this was ferocity and grace made flesh.

The tawny fur on the bottom half of its body was matted with blood. The eagle feathers on the top half hid precise knife wounds.

Its beak and talons in front were coated in blood, like it had gotten several good licks in. Further up the front legs rose blisters in various stages of healing. Shackles, then. 

But the finding that was giving him the most pause?

A pulse.

———————————

If Harry Potter had any chivalry, Draco thought, he would pace attractively where his audience didn’t have to strain their necks to watch. But damned if he was going to move from his standard position on the sofa to get a better view. 

“Okay, so you’re in my kitchen, yeah?” Harry said.

He stood in the middle of Draco’s kitchen with his mobile to his ear, guiding someone through his flat in London, by the sound of it.

“The drawer to the left of the sink. Okay, _second_ drawer left of the sink,” he said as he acted out his own instructions with his eyes closed. Bit cute.

“Right, now lift up-“

“ _I know_. You don’t have to keep telling me. Look under the pot holders.”

“I don’t know, I just do. Geez. Maybe I’ll pop into yours to scrutinize your drawers.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Merlin’s tits, Hermione. They’re comfortable, alright? If Ron wants to wear Speedos, that’s his business.”

Harry’s pacing paused briefly to glance furtively in Draco’s direction.

“Yeah, he does. Uh huh. Lace, actually.”

“Uh huh.”

Intrigued, Draco watched Potter over the edge of his sketchbook. This particular penis portrait was coming along nicely. Coming _all over_ the place, really. Potter caught his eye and blushed furiously.

“Whatever, just bring it over this afternoon. And the headphones off my nightstand.”

“Fine.”

“Alright.”

Potter heaved a sigh and slipped his mobile into his pocket and lingered next to the window. Early morning light cast a long shadow across the floor that climbed the back of the sofa. Steam from his mug shone golden as he lowered it from his lips, and Draco watched the tendrils waft up toward Harry’s jaw, only to be puffed away with his breath. Far different from the Gala’s clouded room and golden shimmering drinks, but reminiscent.

“Were you just discussing my pants with Granger?” Draco asked pointedly. “And what’s a Speedo? Enchanted knickers for the romantically sluggish?”

Harry huffed a laugh and nodded as he looked out along the path.

“They’re tight little swim pants. Ron’s undergarments run high to tight and slick.”

So the ginger _could_ be bothered to dress when desired, Draco mused. Not that he’d ever once thought of Ron Weasley’s pants. Neither the desire nor the purpose had ever occurred.

He rotated the sketchbook and hummed in thought. “This is going to be rather tricky, you know. With Granger here. Thinking about us in various states of undress.”

“Yeah, but writing her a cheque is still easier than all three of us going to a Muggle bank together,” Harry responded.

It didn’t sound like Potter was exactly picking up his meaning, but perhaps for the better. Draco sighed and watched him in the doorway, a sunlit, gold-limned blackness. A coronal silhouette. Umbra aflame. He flipped the page and started a new sketch.

“I hope you haven’t indebted yourself to Granger,” he said warily. “Seems like she’d work out admirably complicated loan conditions. Streak of Goblin in her, that one.”

“Other way around. She wasn’t going to make rent this month, because of the… everything,” Harry said, dismissively waving his hand like it could fill in the blank for him.

“The… spending of her stipend on mens’ lingerie?” Draco ventured. Harry turned to look at him, face obscured in his own shadow. The tips of his hair caught the light and glowed like a tumbleweed on fire.

“You really haven’t been reading the papers I bring in every morning, have you?”

Draco shrugged and shook his head. “Why would I?”

Why would he want to read articles about his childhood being made public? Why read about the Wizengamot disregarding it all? Why read an editorial spin on his life? Draco Malfoy, as interpreted by the Daily Prophet.

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry chuckled. “You have to read this shit.”

He drained his mug and trotted over to his piles of kindling on the table to sort eagerly through stacks of file folders in search of something.

“Here it is,” he said while standing. “This is from the day after the Wizengamot trial. Glad I didn’t throw it out. Start here, then I’ll fill you in.”

With a flick, the paper spun through the air straight toward Draco’s face. Inconsiderate, he thought as he snatched it midair. Once a Seeker, always a Seeker.

A moving picture of Odbert slamming his fists on a table filled the paper above the fold. He’d seen the Goblin angry before, but he was bloody terrifying in this image. His lips pulled back to show sharp teeth glinting a menacing grimace, and his eyes were dark with rage.

_ GRINGOTTS SUSPENDS ALL MINISTRY TRANSACTIONS _

“Potter, what the _fuck_?” he shouted in alarm.

Gringotts couldn’t just _not_ work with the Ministry. They were practically the national bank. Every fucking transaction the Ministry made went through Gringotts. Payroll, international transfers, even their accountants and a fair number of Curse Breakers were hired out from Gringotts. The Ministry was utterly dependent on the Goblins.

Draco unfolded the paper and scanned it with wide eyes. Potter watched him read, glee writ across his face like a proper loon.

_Connie Urban, Political Correspondent_

_In a late-night announcement, the President of Gringotts Bank, with the unanimous approval of the Board of Directors, has informed the Ministry of Magic that they will sever all ties._

“The Gringotts Board of Directors has made the difficult decision to discontinue our relationship with the Ministry of Magic. It is simply not advantageous for us to do business with an organization so heavily sanctioned by the International Confederation of Wizards. 

Nor do we wish to be affiliated with the Wizengamot and its members, who have historically failed to protect those whom they consider lesser beings; Gobins, Elves, Brownies, and, it seems, their own children.” 

_Following the announcement, the Ministry distributed an internal memo to all employees, informing them of an expected freeze in payroll as they seek an alternate banking institution._

_Topping the list of options is Columbia Bank in New York City, whose President issued the following statement:_

“We’re open to a collaboration with the Ministry, provided their employees are willing to absorb the international transfer and currency conversion fees. It will likely result in a significant delay and decrease in pay for Ministry employees, but if we can help, we will.” 

_Based on the publicly-available schedule of fees at time of publication, the Daily Prophet financial analysts estimate this would result in a twenty percent decrease in pay for Ministry employees._

_In a further blow, Gringotts vault holders received post by owl yesterday informing them that all vaults currently held by sitting Wizengamot members would remain locked for the foreseeable future. In combination with the ICW ban on international travel for Wizengamot members, many have resorted to drastic means._

_The pinch has been noticeable in an uptick in liquidation sales all over Knockturn Alley. Reports of increased wares at Ye Olde Curiosity, Moribund’s, and Borgin and Burkes have been the talk of patrons at the White Wyvern._

__“Like a belly full of shepherd’s pie, it is. Watchin’ these old family gits come in cryin’ and sellin’ their grandmum’s robes. Hits the spot, ya know? After what they did?”  
_-Knockturn Alley pawn broker (declined to be named)_

“Great time to invest, if you’ve got a few galleons. Me and my brother, we’re just farm hands up in Suffolk, but we bought a pair of Thestrals for next to nothing. The whole family’s getting into the business. Never would have thought we could swing it.”  
_-Joseph Swinton, White Wyvern patron_

“Now, don’t misunderstand. I love these wankers, I really do. Except you, Alexander, you bastard, don’t nick that table! Anyway, love these idiots, but they’re not much on tips. This week, though? I’ve made enough to pay next month’s rent already. I don’t give a rot what happens to the Wizengamot. Never done nothin’ for me.”  
_-Marta, White Wyvern barmaid_

_Not all Wizengamot members have been willing to weather the storm, however. Sources inside the Council report that over a third of sitting members have relinquished their seats rather than face frozen assets and travel bans._

_Chief Warlock, Samuel Codger, held a very brief, unconventional press conference on Monday evening regarding his own resignation, during which he stated:_

“Sod it! Sod it all! We thought we were doing good work, yeah? And then to see… to see _that_ was all going on under our noses? The hell with it. Best of luck.” __

 _While no replacement for Codger’s vacated seat has been announced, many younger Ministry and community members have been approached to fill open Wizengamot seats. The Daily Prophet will begin issuing a twice-daily missive, the_ WizengaWatch _, to keep readers updated. Subscriptions can be purchased by owl or in person.”_

Stunned, Draco read it twice. And a third time, for good measure. Absolute scads of questions fought their way to the tip of his tongue, and Potter must have noticed his sudden silence.

Green eyes glittered happily above him from behind the sofa. Potter’s fingers picked at the braided trim on the backrest as he waited for Draco to process the information.

“I just… _What the fuck?_ ” Draco blurted, still shocked. “ _How?! Why??_ ”

Harry grinned. “The why is easy. Because it was right. The how was the fun part.”

He rounded the sofa and sat on Draco’s feet, which earned him a half-hearted kick to the thigh. His knee bounced excitedly as his hands went to work weaving a tale of professional espionage.

The amount of time and effort Potter had put into his machinations was breathtaking. It was the most quintessentially Slytherin thing Draco had ever witnessed, and further confirmed Draco’s suspicion that this man was rather brilliant when allowed time to think.

“…so then I gave Connie a couple different Muggle recorders, because Ministry rules only ban _magical_ devices, and I arranged for her to meet with Odbert and Burgock, so there was no Ministry involvement in that. Officially, but-”

“Harry?”

“-I didn’t ask the Goblins to actually _do_ anything, because I figured with the way they talked to you at the Gala, whatever reaction they had would be fine, but this was so much more than I’d expected. Better, too, because if they’d have asked-”

“Harry.”

“-I probably would have just thought they’d slap on some fines or something, which would have been-“

“ _Harold!_ ” Draco finally barked.

Returning from his monologue, Harry looked over at Draco, who was calmly folding the paper. It only shook a little in his hands, and he was rather proud of that.

“Do you understand what you’ve _done_ , Potter?” he asked tentatively.

Harry chewed his lip in hesitation. “Hit them where it hurt,” he said with a questioning shrug.

“Dammit, Potter, you single-handedly caused a banking collapse and destroyed British Quidditch. And for _what_?” Draco sucked his lip under and took a deep breath.

This would end up being the capstone of the Malfoy legacy. The cherry on top of a history of wrongs. The dubiously-moneyed family who relied on nepotism, genocide, oppression, and extortion. 

And for the familial finale, the last heir took out several major institutions on his way. Kaboom! Curtains on the Malfoys! There will be no encore.

“Because…” Potter withered a touch under the scrutiny, and Draco regretted putting him on the spot for an explanation. “Because a wound isn’t clean till it’s bleeding. Right?”

Draco nodded. It was a fair enough analogy, he supposed.

Harry grinned and set his hands on either side of Draco’s shins. “I knew before I was in Auror training that the whole system was broken. And I didn’t do this single-handedly,” Harry said patiently. “In fact, you did the real work.”

Draco scoffed at him. “I had no part in this and you know it.”

Rough, tanned hands skimmed thumbs back and forth over the velvet next to his legs, and he watched them with trepidation.

“Falk and the Goblins,” Harry offered. “Maybe they’d have stuck their necks out for a stranger, but maybe not. They do all hate the Ministry.”

Draco shrugged. “Everybody hates the Ministry.”

What would this really accomplish in the long run? Some new faces in Wizengamot robes, some happy press coverage. The ICW would repeal their sanctions. And in the end, Draco Malfoy would just have been a pain in the world’s ass again.

Harry leaned forward over Draco’s outstretched legs, sliding his hands up along his knees.

“That’s the problem, Dray!” Harry hissed. His knees swept up under him as he rose on all fours over Draco’s legs.

The nickname falling from Harry’s lips jolted Draco back to his dream at King’s Cross. _You worry too much, Dray._ Tears bloomed against his lower lids, and he blinked them away. Gods, this man was just entirely too noble. 

__“Not only does almost everyone hate the Ministry, but it takes a lifetime to change anything. So that’s why I decided the hell with it, and blew it all out of the water-“_ _

__“I really do love you, Harry Potter,” Draco said softly, punctuated with a resigned, shuddering sigh. “I just… I really do.”_ _

__Potter stilled, careful consideration written across his face as he hovered above Draco’s legs. His eyes didn’t waver, and the scrutiny was too much. Draco looked away as he set his sketchbook and pen on the table._ _

__Harry swallowed thickly as he crawled forward, hovering above Draco’s thighs._ _

__“Say it again?” he whispered._ _

__Draco’s breath hitched, and he regretted clearing off his lap as Harry crawled forward again. A nice, thick book over his crotch would have been smart._ _

__“I love you,” he murmured. He held the intense green gaze as it steadily crept closer._ _

__Strong hands gripped the arm of the sofa on either side of Draco’s shoulders, and his breath came fast. Whether in excitement or alarm, he couldn’t tell, but perhaps it didn’t matter._ _

__Harry’s knees straddled Draco’s hips, still hovering above him, but his face was mere inches away._ _

__“Again.”_ _

__“I love-“_ _

__Soft lips smothered his words and stole his breath. How could a man so coarse have lips so exquisitely soft? And how could a man who tread so impudently move those lips so delicately?_ _

__His hands slid into black hair seeking purchase, but Harry pulled back._ _

__“Again,” he whispered against Draco’s jaw._ _

__The request made him smile. “I love you.”_ _

__Harry slid his lips gently along Draco’s jaw to his ear. “Again,” he mouthed wordlessly._ _

__A soft chuckle fell from him as Harry kissed his way down Draco’s neck._ _

__“I love you.”_ _

__His hands tried to guide Harry’s lips back to his own, but he was undeterred in his exploration._ _

__“Once more,” Harry mumbled into Draco’s shoulder._ _

__“I. Love. You.” Slowly. Succinctly. Surely._ _

__Harry’s face popped back up, and he leaned in for a final chaste peck._ _

__“Thank you.” Golden light glinted off unshed tears, and Draco’s chest ached at the sight._ _

__Harry unceremoniously plopped back down on the other end of the couch and stared at the dark fireplace. A small smile slowly softened his face._ _

__Startled, Draco watched him without bothering to hide his own dumb grin. It was somehow the most fulfilling and least satisfying kiss of his life. So terribly appropriate for Harry Potter._ _

__“You’re very welcome.”_ _

__————————————_ _

__Wrist-deep in sudsy dishwater, Harry really hoped Hermione was only stopping by for the cheque, but he suspected she was going to stay and talk awhile. Pity._ _

__That kiss needed a follow-up. A more thorough one, with hands and teeth and his hard cock grinding against Draco as he lay seductively framed by that blasted red velvet._ _

__A fork tine jammed under his fingernail in a searing rush of pain as he reached into the water, and he almost welcomed the jarring focus. Almost. The past few hours had been a monotony of him shuffling through papers and replying to texts through a nervous, giddy haze._ _

__“She’s on her way in.” Draco looked to the ceiling and clucked his tongue, tasting something in his mind. “With something magical?”_ _

__A plate slid out of Harry’s hands, and his breath hitched. The edge hit with a soft thud on the washrag, and he sighed. “Never know what that witch will scare up.”_ _

__“It’s alive and it feels like sunlight through eyelids.” His tongue made a brief appearance as he thought. “I like it already, whatever it is. Or whomever.”_ _

__Harry’s brow knit as he rinsed the silverware. “You just let an unknown magical signature through your wards?” That was unusually careless of Draco. Or trusting. He paused to check his ward-tethered bracelet. “A signature that didn’t register on the Ministry ward, by the way.”_ _

__Draco hopped up to kneel in the middle of the sofa and peer out the south windows. The crotch of his trousers pressed into the tufted velvet of the backrest, and Harry swallowed thickly. “She’s carrying something,” he said, squinting at the window._ _

__“You can’t see that far,” Harry huffed, stacking the dishes on a towel to dry. Draco’s hips swayed, rubbing against the couch in anticipation, but he seemed to be oblivious to his own movements._ _

His squint deepened as he leaned his shoulders over the back of the sofa. “They don’t call it ‘eagle-eyed’ for nothing, you know. I think it’s the Kneazle.” He sprang over the back of the couch in one fluid, long-legged sweep. “I’m going to fly out and meet her. And scare the _shit_ out of that cat.” His shoulders shook like a bird settling feathers as he stepped out the door. 

__“You can’t-“ A magical thud like a bowling ball on carpet cut him off as Draco hit the end of the Ministry’s tether. Harry braced himself for a barrage of French insults._ _

__Instead, Draco walked back in, surprisingly composed, hair standing on end. “I was mistaken. I will _not_ be flying out to meet them. And I hope she didn’t see that.”_ _

__“Run into a window?”_ _

__Harry started the kettle, dried two mugs and grabbed a third. The amount of dishes two people could dirty was impressive._ _

__“I will never again wish death by fenestration to any of my feathered foes.”_ _

__Hiding his smirk, Harry sat at the end of the table nearest the kitchen to wait for the kettle. Draco lingered, standing at his elbow. “If you don’t seat Granger between us, there’s an excellent chance I’ll pet you while she watches.”_ _

__The smirk broke through, and Harry arched his back in a demonstrative stretch, nabbing Draco’s hand in the process. He’d intended to lay a slightly too-long kiss on his knuckles, as Draco had done the night he’d claimed his wards, but the angle was wrong._ _

__Tendrils of vines caught his interest instead, and he pressed his lips along the outer edge of the other man’s hand. He grazed up the hand and back down. It was odd that the design had no texture, he thought. Something this beautiful should be felt as well as seen._ _

__Draco cleared his throat, grey eyes intently watching him. “Let’s not dampen her knickers too thoroughly, shall we?”_ _

__Draco took the seat next to him, and Harry shrugged and released his hand. “Might be fun.”_ _

__A massive understatement, he thought. Sharing Hermione had become a prevalent fantasy of his over a month ago. Sharing her, sharing Draco, being shared between the both of them. His breath hitched at the thought of Draco behind him and Hermione on his cock._ _

__“Somebody…” Draco drawled, “has given it quite a bit of consideration.”_ _

__A prickling blush crept up Harry’s neck, and he pushed back against the habit of shutting down the conversation. “I… may have thought of it in the bath. Several times.”_ _

__Draco hummed noncommittally and swirled tea in his mug. Harry took a deep breath and let it slowly hiss out between pursed lips. He’d been dreading and looking forward to this conversation for days._ _

__“Draco, so, we’re dating.”_ _

__Grey eyes shot him a quizzical look as he tossed back the contents of his mug. He nodded as he swallowed._ _

__“So,” he took another deep breath, “are we only dating each other?”_ _

__A corner of Draco’s mouth curled in a half-simper, and Harry struggled to hold his gaze. It was embarrassing, he thought, to be asking a man he hadn’t shagged if he could still fuck the woman he’d been bedding for a few months now._ _

__But if he remembered correctly, Falk hadn’t been with anyone else while he and Draco were together. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume he would expect the same from Harry._ _

And what if he did? Was he willing to just tell Hermione he wasn’t available anymore? It would be rather nice to tell _other_ women he was taken. 

__Draco hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t-“ A clatter interrupted him as the door swung inward and an orange streak shot through to the bedroom._ _

__Harry grimaced and looked to Draco for at least a non-verbal answer to his question, but the other man’s eyes were on Hermione in the doorway. She squeezed through the door with two rather large duffel bags hanging from each shoulder._ _

“ _Ma chatte_ and her cat,” he beckoned in greeting. He leaned back in his chair to peer between the bookcases. “What on earth is that Kneazle doing to my bed?!” 

“Harry, your things are in the black bag. Cheques are in the front pocket.” She hefted the two bags on the table and followed his gaze. “And _Crookshanks_ is either scent-marking the mattress or himself. Enthusiastically.” 

__She slid the black bag over to Harry, who was still watching Draco for some answer to his question. He hadn’t asked her to pack him a bag. “What’s in here, ‘Mione?”_ _

__“You said you wanted a jacket, so I thought that if you’d planned that poorly, you were probably in need of quite a bit of clothing.” She took the seat next to Harry, across from Draco, and poured herself a cup of tea. Harry pouted. She wasn’t wrong. He’d run out of clean shirts yesterday._ _

__“Why is there a Kneazle in my bed?” Draco inquired, staring daggers at the bedroom doorway._ _

__“I need a cat-sitter for the next week or two, so I brought him here. Please?” Harry shrugged in reluctant agreement. Hermione blew softly across her tea and looked up, beaming. “Guess what I am.”_ _

__Draco’s gaze turned to her, still displeased. “About eleven stone and perpetually aroused.”_ _

__Harry snorted a laugh as she rolled her eyes. “Are you… top of your class? Already?”_ _

__She looked ready to bounce in her seat, Harry thought. “Nope. Try again.”_ _

__“Uhm…” Harry muttered. Something bookish, if it got her this excited. “You are… hell, I don’t know. You’re taking up jazz piano.”_ _

__She shook her head and they both looked to Draco, who was counting distractedly on his fingers, head leaned back, eyes closed. With a glance to each other, they both frowned._ _

“You’re not…” Draco whispered to himself. “No. He wasn’t _that_ close to the twins in age.” 

Hermione’s face dropped as she watched him think. “ _Ma chatte_ , I have no idea. You are… moving in, apparently?” 

__“I…” She gathered her composure enough to stop studying Draco, but cocked her head at his guess in question. “I’m Wizengamot.”_ _

__—————————————_ _

Draco sighed so hard, his vision swam. _Pregnant_ , was what he dreaded she was. Newborn twins were going to be enough of an adventure without the redheaded boy fast on their heels. But he wouldn’t be too terribly far behind. 

__They were both frowning at him in disapproval, and he cringed at the realization he’d just stomped all over her announcement. “I’m very relieved they’re choosing their new members wisely,” he said._ _

__Harry’s gaze lingered on him suspiciously for a moment before turning to congratulate Hermione._ _

“I’m going to see if the Kneazle shat the bed.” _Because I just did_ , he thought to himself as he rose and walked to the bedroom. Snippets of their Ministry-centric conversation drifted behind him. Doldrum adrift. 

__The Kneazle, whose presence was still not justified in his home, was perched on top of the ledge batting his baubles about. Pearls, shells, and pieces of sea glass adorned the pillows, and the cat was merrily chewing on a crumpled up sketch. Yellow eyes watched him, confident that chomping this threatening wad of paper would ensure the safety of his human. Death by doodle, narrowly averted._ _

__Draco let the cat sniff his hand before scratching its head and immediately grabbing him by the scruff. Hesitating, he wondered what Legilimency and a Kneazle would do together. The cat watched him calmly, paper ball still in his mouth. He let a tendril of Legilimency wander down to the fuzzy head and waited._ _

_Fiiiiiiiiish! Smells like fiiiiiiiiiiish!_

__“Oh, for Salazar’s sake. You can speak, and that’s all you have to say.” He scooped an arm under Crookshanks and turned to walk back to the living room. “And I won’t have any fish for a couple weeks.” The damnable cat huffed in disappointment. Eerie._ _

__“I’ll just sign off the whole book and you can use them for whatever, ‘Mione. Really, unless you go and buy a house, you won’t make much of a dent.”_ _

__“That’s… extremely generous, but your flat’s not cheap.”_ _

__Harry shrugged, “I paid the rent up through the end of the year when I renewed the contract in January.”_ _

“What?!” Hermione barked. “You paid a _year’s worth_ of rent in one check for your flat in _Soho_?!” 

__Harry shrugged again, and Draco thought he looked incredibly uncomfortable. In fact, he’d looked rather ill-at-ease since his question about their dating had been interrupted._ _

__Draco bit the inside of his lip, pausing between the bookshelves to watch them while Crookshanks purred happily in his arms._ _

__“I just don’t spend that much money, I guess.”_ _

__He should have just gone ahead and answered the question in front of Hermione. They’d need to cross that bridge, anyway. But truth be told, he wasn’t sure how he felt about Harry dating other people._ _

“But it’s in fucking _Soho_ , you yuppie!” 

Hermione, obviously, was fine. Livid at the moment, but fine. Exquisite, even. And given her reaction to him talking about his male lovers, he was fairly sure she would _adore_ a true _ménage-à-trois_. 

__But if Harry wanted to continue going on bad dates and having ambivalent sex with coworkers? He didn’t love the idea. Mostly because Harry seemed to hate it._ _

“Well, it’s close to the Ministry and there’s lots of cool stuff in _fucking Soho_ , Granger. Geez. Sorry I’m not a starving law student,” Harry retorted. “Oh! Take my apartment key, too. If anything happens, you’d probably be able to get there faster.” 

__“You’re giving me the key to your flat and an entire book of signed cheques?” she asked warily._ _

But what if Harry wanted to date other men, as well? _That_ gave him pause. Personally, he’d never had more than one man in his bed at a time. Not that he cared about. Nor had he ever wanted to. But he’d had the opportunity. Harry hadn’t. 

__It wasn’t unreasonable to assume he’d want to try on other cocks for size. The thought of Harry on a date with, say, Cornfoot, did not sit well in an embarrassingly greedy way._ _

__“Gave Ron access to my vault, too. He’s been bringing furniture in here every day for a week.” Harry threaded a key off a keyring and handed it to her. “So, if you two decide you want me out on the streets, I suppose you can.”_ _

__“From rags to riches back to rags, the story of Harry Potter, the Hedge Wizard.”_ _

__“You’d live here,” Draco muttered absently from the doorway, still half-lost in thought. They both turned to look at him, and he realized the weight of his words. Wide-eyed, he groped for a change in topic. “What’s Fucking Soho?”_ _

__“Uhm… just Soho,” Harry said. “The neighborhood my flat is in. My flat you all hate.”_ _

__Hermione smirked primly. “The building Harry’s flat is in plus the little four-story building next to it are worth more than Malfoy Manor.”_ _

__“That’s ridiculous!” Draco barked a laugh, and Crookshanks startled, scratching his arm. He set the cat down with a chuckle, and it zipped back between his legs to the bedroom. “You can’t even graze sheep there!”_ _

__Harry and Hermione snorted a laugh in perfect unison, and Harry handed her a booklet of cheques. He pulled out his wallet and handed her a card, as well. “PIN number is one-two-three-four.” She rolled her eyes and tucked it in her pocket._ _

“Harry.” Draco said, drawing his attention as he made his way back to his chair across from Hermione. “If you had the money, why did you opt for that hideous _futon_?” 

__Harry looked down into his empty mug, thumbs tapping a rhythm on the handle. Draco bit his lip and wondered if asking about the state of one’s furnishings was considered impolite, but Granger didn’t appear offended._ _

__A flush graced Harry’s cheeks that hadn’t been there moments ago. “I didn’t think a second bed would be needed for that much longer.” He raised his mug for what was probably an imaginary gulp of tea._ _

__“Oh.” Draco sighed, dumbstruck. “I guess you were right.”_ _

Harry set the mug down, smirked, and _winked_ at him. _Winked!_

__Hermione eyed Harry’s growing grin and Draco’s obvious shock with suspicion. “Something you’d like to share with the class?”_ _

__Harry cleared his throat needlessly. “We’re dating.”_ _

__Draco may have held his breath. Or the air froze. Or a combination of the two._ _

__Her eyes darted back and forth between them before settling to stare into space between them. “Huh,” she huffed. “That’s… huh.”_ _

__Hesitantly, Draco slid a hand closer to Harry. His breath shuddered in when the other man met him, clasping his fingers lightly._ _

__“So…” she drawled, still staring at empty air. “Huh.”_ _

__Draco leaned over to whisper to Harry, well-aware Hermione could hear him. “I think we broke her.”_ _

__Harry grinned wolfishly. “Poor witch.”_ _

__“I think she wants to watch, at the very least,” Draco postulated. Hermione’s gaze drifted to their entwined fingers, her eyes wide, breathing shallow. “Look at her. Getting all squirmy.”_ _

__“Oh, I think she wants to do a lot more than watch,” Harry said, an unexpected edge of seduction in his voice._ _

Draco’s arms ran with goosebumps at the tone. Gods, what would Potter the plotter accomplish if he put his mind to the bedroom instead of politics? _Merde_ , perhaps he already had with his futon purchase. 

“Earth to Wizengaswot…” Harry sang as he brought their hands up to his lips and grazed them along Draco’s knuckles, eyes intent on Hermione. “ _Do_ you want to do more than watch, ‘Mione?” 

__“I-” she stammered. “I do.” Her eyes flicked to Draco, who was only a little less in awe at the display than she was._ _

__Harry turned to him, a glint in his eye. “What do you think, Draco? Should we let her play, too?”_ _

__He swallowed thickly, downright discombobulated by Harry’s sudden confidence. “She is an excellent sport. Yes.”_ _

__“Oh, definitely,” Harry said with a nod. “She handles two broomsticks at a time very well.”_ _

__Hermione hid her face in her hands, and Harry chuckled. “Relax, ‘Mione. We’re not hopping into bed together any time soon, anyway. Not unless I want to change careers and watch Draco get carted off to Azkaban.”_ _

__Hermione and Draco both relaxed, and Draco remembered the question he’d been meaning to ask since she’d stepped foot through the door._ _

“Why did you bring the Kneazle _here_?” 

__———————————_ _

__“She left us a voyeur of a pet.” Draco eyed the cat on the hearth warily, gaze darting back to the flat of Harry’s palm running down his cock through a pair of tatty blue boxers. "He’s watching us."_ _

__“He is not.” Harry glanced up momentarily from the growing tent in Draco’s plaid pajama bottoms. He licked his lips, gaze returning._ _

“Harry, he’s looking right at us.” Yellow eyes bored into Draco’s, and he glared back. “Fuck off or no fish, _lionceau_.” Crookshanks huffed and left for one of the extra rooms. 

“He was just looking out the window behind us. Since when were _you_ shy?” 

__Harry wiggled his toes wedged under Draco’s bum. Draco responded by wiggling his ass against Harry’s toes, to little effect._ _

“Since when were you so bloody _bold_ , Potter?” Draco retorted. 

__Finding Harry on the couch wasn’t surprising. Finding Harry in nothing but his pants had been a bit of a shock. Finding Harry with a hand inside those pants had been a jaw-dropping experience. And elocution had utterly failed him when Harry had asked him to take the other end of the couch and do the same._ _

__“Well,” he drawled slowly, “after having several days to think it through, I figured I could risk it.”_ _

__Per Harry’s request, they leaned against opposing arms of the couch, outside foot on the floor, other foot on the couch. A rather effective position for displaying oneself, he had to admit._ _

__“You invited me to wank on my own couch, because… Thursdays are especially lucky?”_ _

__Draco skimmed fingers along his growing length, not sure if he was grateful to have chosen lace knickers again this morning, or if it would be unnecessary fuel on the fire._ _

__Harry smiled softly and shook his head. “Say it again?”_ _

__Draco’s breath hitched as he caught on. “I love you.”_ _

__“That’s why,” Harry whispered, his smile turning bittersweet._ _

_Rejection_ , Draco thought. He’d been afraid of rejection through this whole dance. The awkward preceding days, the tense last weeks, the contention of their youth. 

__Always stepping back when drawn forward. Nothing ventured, so much lost._ _

__“When was the last time you heard it?” Draco asked, carefully neutral. It was, perhaps, too much._ _

__Harry’s forehead creased in thought. “I guess Molly says it sometimes when I leave the Burrow.”_ _

__“Not the same,” Draco blurted, then shut his mouth, lips pursed. “Sorry.”_ _

__“No,” Harry admitted with a shrug. “You’re right. It’s not.”_ _

__Gods, he looked so vulnerable. A lost child’s eyes in the body of a grown man. A rather fit, eager grown man, Draco tried to remind himself, lest sentiment get in the way of said requested wanking._ _

He flexed his toes against the floor, reminding himself _not_ to hurtle forward and reassure Harry with his lips. And then his hands. And then the rest of his body. And that’s why Harry had told him to keep a foot on the floor. Bit embarrassing to be preemptively reined in by Potter, but he wasn’t wrong. 

__Draco tilted his head back onto the arm of the sofa, thinking. How to reassure and arouse with nothing at his disposal but words and spectacle? He smiled softly. Rather fine arsenal, that._ _

__“Harry?” He spoke to the ceiling and presumed the other man was watching him. “I love you.”_ _

__“I love you to utter distraction.” Draco’s hands skimmed up from his lap to the edge of his t-shirt, letting it ride up. His thumbs hooked the shirt and he removed it in one quick jerk, face still tilted up to the ceiling._ _

__Draco wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard Harry’s pants slide down. Emboldened, he licked his lips and ran his fingers over the faint scars that criss-crossed his chest._ _

__“I love you with terrifying recklessness.”_ _

__His fingers found the waistband of his trousers, and he slipped a hand inside. A sigh left his lips as he cupped his hardening length and ran a thumb over the head._ _

__“I love you with sheer delight and in paralyzing awe.”_ _

__Harry treated him to a low, involuntary hum, and Draco lifted his head for a peek. The other man’s pants were as far down his thighs as he could get them without breaking the rules and moving his feet. Aurors and their rules. Tsk tsk, Draco thought._ _

Slowly, he let his thumbs slide his bottoms down to expose the edge of black lace underneath. It earned him an appreciative hissed _”Shit!”_ from the other end of the couch. 

__“I love you with embarrassing selfishness,” he moaned softly as he teased fingers under the lace, “and total abandon.”_ _

__“Oh, Godric,” Harry panted. “Shit.”_ _

__Draco let a grin break through and wiggled down on the couch, head tipping forward to face Harry. He was a smoldering mess, and it was a beautiful sight._ _

__An inarticulate sound between a whine and a hum escaped around the bottom lip he held between his teeth._ _

__The blush that had started delicately across his cheekbones spread down in a scarlet rush down his jaw, skipped his neck, and picked back up across his upper chest._ _

And he _moved_. The entirety of him thrummed with need. The palm of his unoccupied hand skimmed the edge of the couch, leaving damp lines in the velvet. His toes flexed and spread for want of traction. 

But his _hips_. His hips curled up to meet his waiting fist, pausing at the top and slowly sinking back down to rest on the couch before beginning the whole entrancing process again. And Draco did find himself well and truly entranced. 

__Emerald eyes blazed with heat as he watched Draco’s hands push the pajama bottoms down over the lace._ _

__“I love you with all the pride, wrath, and greed few others can fathom, Harry.”_ _

_”Fuck… fuck… fuck…”_ he chanted under his breath as Draco’s hips were exposed, the geometric pattern of the black lace revealing stark lines and diamonds of pale skin. 

__Harry’s eyes followed the long fingers stroking along the edges of the knickers. He stifled a short gasp as Draco hooked his thumbs in the waistband and began to inch them down._ _

__Draco smiled to himself, ready for a bit of audience participation. Truly, he was as eager to get the knickers off as Harry. There was only so much room to grow in lace._ _

“Tell me what you want, _mon coeur_.” 

__Draco pulled his bottom lip under, studying Harry’s cock. It was… intimidating, he had to admit. Quite possibly problematic in size. A soft frown crept across his face, but he sighed and focused on Harry’s face. His wonderful, catastrophically undone face. His blush had deepened to a lovely crimson, and even his forehead was now flushed._ _

__“I want-” he panted. “I want to watch you come. And I want you to watch me come.”_ _

__“Who do you want to come first?” Draco’s fingers tested the give in the waistband of his knickers. Rather finely-woven stretch lace. Delicate enough for some theatrics._ _

__Harry shook his head in an attempt to clear it. “I- I don’t know.”_ _

__“Shall I choose, then?”_ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__“Very well,” Draco purred. “I’m going to make you come by watching me. Are you ready?”_ _

__Harry nodded and hummed his agreement, a touch of worry to his brow. Draco pulled his lip under to hide a smirk._ _

__Both his hands drifted down over the lace, alternating between cupping himself and stroking his trapped cock as Harry watched. A soft, needy whine fell from Harry’s lips, and Draco let a wicked grin peek through as both his hands skimmed together to one side._ _

__Long fingers wrapped themselves in the lace over one hip, stretching the thin band tight between his hands. He _pulled_ , and the thick rip of fabric tore a gasp from Harry, followed by a soft growl. _ _

__Interesting, Draco thought, as his fingers wandered to the intact lace over his other hip. “Again?”_ _

__Harry nodded enthusiastically and tensed in anticipation. Draco tore through the weave more slowly this time, letting Harry watch the strands stretch, snap, recoil and part._ _

__Another, longer growl that faded into a groan. The timbre of it made Draco’s own cock ache to be touched. He withdrew his hands, and Harry whined softly at the sight of his hard cock barely covered by the remaining lace._ _

_”Fuck, Draco,”_ he whispered, eyes wild, pupils enormous. 

__Harry’s pace had slowed to near nothing, and Draco congratulated himself. The man was keeping himself at the cusp of climax just to watch the show._ _

__Harry licked his lips and watched the scrap of lace expectantly. Draco observed his gaze, postulating._ _

__Subtly, he lifted his hips from the couch and snuck a hand to the back of his waist. With excruciating slowness, he pulled the lace up his back. The remaining scrap over his cock slid down, inch by inch, while Harry groaned at the sight._ _

__Gods, the sounds this man made. It had kept him as hard as if he’d been stroking himself the whole time. His own cock throbbed, hot and heavy in his hand as he grasped it. His other hand slid, still behind him, to reappear between his legs._ _

__Draco grinned at Harry’s sudden shock at seeing Draco’s fingers against the wrinkled skin of his ass. So easily surprised, this one._ _

“ _Ablunguo_ ,” he muttered, a shuddering sigh escaping as his fingers slicked back and forth between his legs. “Shall I?” 

__Dumbstruck, Harry nodded._ _

__Draco relaxed his body against the waiting press of his fingertips. It wasn’t a good angle for hitting his prostate, but the eager little noises escaping Harry’s parted lips more than compensated._ _

__Two fingers slid in easily enough, and he started stroking in earnest. His body tightened around his fingers with every stroke, waves of pleasure coursing from his ass to the head of his cock and back again._ _

__“More.” Barely a whisper, but it made heat coil and tense against Draco’s fingertips. He withdrew and slicked a third finger along his skin before pressing the tented tips against himself._ _

__Draco gasped at the sudden fullness as his fingers sank in, and Harry groaned in response. Draco’s back arched, hips grinding against one hand while the other stroked. The tension that had already built was quickly rising, and he looked to Harry._ _

“Fuck, Draco,” he whispered, gripping his length and picking up speed. “Fuck… fuck… _fuck!_ ” Harry’s body tensed as his shoulders rose, and he came in a sharp shout. He relaxed back down with a shudder and shake of his head. 

Pressure built deep inside against Draco’s fingertips and he hissed in a breath as it unwound, spilling him into his hand and onto his skin. _”Gods, mon coeur.”_

__Their breathing slowed, and each rewarded the other with a lazy, sheepish grin._ _

__————————————_ _

__Ron wiped bloody fingerprints off the magizoology book and dropped it back in the drawer. It hadn’t helped immensely in patching the poor creature up, but at least he had some background information. The Griffin had to have come from Greece. It was a male. And it was an adult._ _

__His Auror triage spells from a former life had come in handy, even if he wasn’t sure whether using them on creatures would have adverse effects. So far, so good. The bleeding had stopped, and the Griffin’s breathing was steady._ _

__He ran his fingers through a clean patch of fur on the animal’s haunch and sighed. If he was going to get this beast home safely, he needed a dubious wizard with some equally dubious Greek connections who could communicate with eagles and kept his mouth shut._ _

__With a second, deeper sigh, he pulled the pen out of his pocket and amended the days-old note on his hand, retracing the faded ink._ _

_DLM-Jewelry line name  
DLM-Griffin?!_

__—————————————_ _

__Draco surveyed the upholstery surrounding them and clicked his tongue. “For the sake of this sofa, we should probably keep these sessions to baths and the bed.”_ _

__Harry let his head fall back against the arm of the couch. The picture of satiation._ _

__“Are you inviting me to your bed, Draco?”_ _

__“You seem to be done dithering, so yes. I am.”_ _

__“I accept, then.”_ _

“Excellent. Anything to get that hideous _futon_ out of my house.” 

__Draco sighed, feeling pleasantly numb for the moment. Harry had been right about the temporary nature of the futon, then. Unnerving._ _

__“It might be tricky, though,” Harry said, pulling his pants up. Draco pouted at the concealment of such a lovely sight. There were many cock sketches in his near future._ _

__“The whole ‘Don’t molest your Auror or we’ll throw you back in the hole’ thing?” Draco followed suit, grudgingly, and pulled his pajama bottoms up with a grimace. Hopping in the spring sounded better than redressing._ _

__“Is that what they told you?” Harry sat up, cross-legged, and wiped his glasses off on the hem of his pants._ _

“There was a literal written test upon release from Azkaban, _Head Auror_.” Draco grabbed his t-shirt from the floor and wiped himself off, regretting he hadn’t thought of that before pulling his pajamas back up. He pulled the ruined knickers from behind him with a flourish, and threw them on the floor. Harry humored him with a grin. 

__“Thou shalt not touch the pucker of thine Auror’s arse, or back you go. Thou shalt not warm thyself in thine Auror’s cunt, if applicable, or it’s shackles for you. And wildly double-fisting thine Auror’s truly magnificent cock, well, that’s right out, then.”_ _

__Harry huffed a surprised breath. “That’s actually more specific than what’s in our code of conduct. It just said something about not touching arses and crotches, which I thought meant with clothes on, as well.”_ _

__“Potter,” Draco huffed. “You just had your foot under my pajama-clad ass and you’ve practically wallowed in my come. I think it’s safe to say there’s an immense grey area worth exploiting for a few weeks.”_ _

__“Oh…”_ _

__Draco cocked his head and watched Harry’s face as the possibilities sank in. Like an orgiastic Yule light display being plugged in for the first time. Twinkling, technicolor perversions._ _

“Ah, now you understand, _mon coeur_. But you will be sleeping _on_ my bed, not _in_ my bed for the time being.” Draco paused for effect and scowled when Crookshanks sauntered in and resumed his post on the hearth. “Remember what I was wearing when I answered the door a couple of weeks ago?” 

__Harry’s hand drifted back to cup himself through his pants. “That skirt.”_ _

__Eyebrows raised in invitation, Draco hummed in acknowledgement. He’d fantasized about laying all of that lovely satin between them and rutting like a couple of horny teenagers, so it was only fair for Harry to carry the image in his head, as well._ _

__“I will leave you with that. I’m going down for a bath before I turn in.” Draco hefted himself off the couch and stretched. “And don’t be surprised if you wake up to another performance in the morning.”_ _

__

____

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Betrothal Eschewelry

**Pureblood Parkinson**

But she’s so niiiiiiice.  
A dowry paid, and plans all made.  
But she’s so _nice._  
It’s happened once, it’ll happen twice.  
Collaborate with me? Evade?  
“At least your parents get you laid.”  
But she’s. So. Nice.

**Greener Grass, My Ass**

Astoria?!  
What is she now, all of fourteen?  
Astoria?  
This look? Utter euphoria.  
No, wartime weddings aren’t routine.  
Sure, we’ll wed near the latrine.  
_Astoria._

**Mind-blind**

Keenest bellend,  
That’s all I’ll now call you.  
Keenest bellend.  
For fuck’s sake, Mag! Yes! They’ll pursue!  
No, _amoreaux_ , I’m just screwed.  
Keenest. Bell. End.

DLM 2002 Sea of Okhotsk  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	29. One Floo Over the Cuckold's Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut. Next chapter? Smut. Chapter after that? Smut. 
> 
> Ron! Griffins are not pets!  
> Harry! Floos are not sex toys!  
> Draco! Potter is not to be trusted with your immobilized ass!  
> Hermione! You'll get yours in the next chapter!  
> Pansy! You're an excellent friend.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Orion’s Dealt

When stars align,  
Inching slowly, perfect meter.  
They take… their… time.

And I, maligned,  
Madness’ threshold, there I teeter  
I took… my… time.

And this bloodline?  
Dead and gone. Capstone Death Eater.  
It had… its… time.

But… lovers, mine?  
Four is tart, and eight much sweeter.  
We’ll take… our… time.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

A huge golden eye watched Ron from the floor as he dissected the Runespoor. Whoever had dumped this was an absolute moron to not have checked it for eggs. Three pure silver eggs and one broken shell sat in a corner of the room.

The Griffin had awoken when the egg hit the floor, to which Ron had responded with screaming and preparing to meet his ancestors. He had not ended up dying in a secret basement under a joke store, but if he had, his last thought would have been _I wish I’d told her I loved her._

There was a very simple flower arrangement in his near-future. And a very complicated Griffin situation.

It just sat there, this Griffin. Well, not sat. Lay. Lay exactly where Ron had levitated it to against the wall. Its wings twitched every so often, and its eye watched him, but it hadn’t moved other than that.

When he’d made the first cut into the Runespoor, the Griffin’s breathing had changed to a tentative sniffing. But what did Griffins eat? Fish, Ron assumed. Big ones. Entire pigs, judging by the size of its talons. The Griffin wasn’t much smaller than his car, and could probably carry off a smaller man.

“Want a piece?”

The eye simply watched him. He tossed a small piece of Runespoor flesh, and the eye tracked it through the air as it landed in front of the Griffin. It snapped it up awkwardly with the side of its beak and gulped it down. The golden eye returned to him.

“Plenty more,” he said as he tossed a larger chunk.

—————————

Draco scowled at the legs sticking out of his fireplace. He took an over-confident gulp of coffee and his eyes fluttered shut in poised masochism as it burned all the way down to his collarbones. With a pout on its way to a full snit, he collapsed his head onto his folded arms atop the table.

Everyone’s least-favorite Weasley brother needed to hurry up and get the fuck out of his living room. Draco had a lot of important things to do. Most of which involved teasing an Auror. 

Percy was standing inside the fireplace measuring Merlin-knew-what, and Draco’s patience was nearly gone. Stupid cock-blocking Weasley. Stupid cock-blocking Ministry.

He wasn’t sure if this delicate dance he and Harry were doing was worth the frustration, but it wasn’t as if he could stop. _They_ could stop. Harry was having as torturously wonderful a time as he was. Gods below, the show he’d put on in the spring this morning of slicking himself up with Draco’s shampoo had been beyond indulgent.

But then _Percy Fucking Weasley_ had arrived, like a dour, persnickety schoolmarm, nipping Draco’s opportunity to reciprocate.

His skin burned to be touched, having been denied in the bath. His cock throbbed in the pants he’d hurriedly stuffed it into, and Harry just _sat there_. Just placidly reading the news and eating mother fucking oatmeal. 

Draco rubbed his face against his forearms and weighed magically cooling his coffee against ending up with cold coffee. He then briefly considered freezing Harry’s oatmeal for his own amusement. 

A clatter of metal tools and bland almost-expletives echoed from the fireplace. Having Percy Weasley know where he lived was bad enough, but if someone had to register the Floo, better it be an administrator who could hide the paperwork. 

He had to give Harry credit. This was much better than the whole Department of Magical Transportation knowing that Draco Malfoy was reachable by Floo. The Firecalls would have been never-ending.

“I’ll never forgive you for this, you know.” He laid his cheek on his forearms and glared at Harry. “Putting me on the map like buried treasure. Might want to just paint a big X over the whole property.”

“What map?” Harry scoffed around a mouthful of oatmeal, snapping open yesterday’s Prophet. “You _might_ grow to enjoy not being a hermit.”

On the front page of the paper, an angry Shackelbolt pointed his finger at people in turn and then at a door. 

_HATS ROLL AS WIZENGAMOT SUBJECTED TO FURTHER ICW PROBE_

Draco picked at a piece of toast in the center of the table. It wasn’t a bad plan, the Floo. But it wasn’t _his_ plan, so he’d decided to be a pain in the ass about it. 

Damn Potter and his plans. And his stubble. And his still-wet hair. And his enormous fucking cock. And his absolutely indecent moans as he’d stroked himself in the bath. _And his annoying ginger friend who would not fuck off._

A tidy pile of mail sat on the table next to Potter’s oatmeal. Evidence that his new owl remediation plan was working. _That_ hadn’t been Draco’s idea, either.

He hadn’t needed to repair a dent in the wards in days, but Harry was humoring his dawn runs. Or he didn’t want to deal with Draco’s tendency to bounce off the walls in the early morning. 

The smug bastard practically gloated about those damn owls. Or at least it felt like gloating to Draco, who’d been living… well, not happily, but living with the eagle and ward solution for years. It had taken a few nights to get used to not being awoken by screaming birds and hexes slithering through his head as they oozed down the wards.

And damned if the Head Auror didn’t already have charges filed against some of the senders. He hadn’t disclosed their identities to Draco yet, but some casual early morning snooping had revealed that several of them were Ministry employees. That would be interesting to watch play out.

Harry took another bite of oatmeal and turned the page. The man didn’t seem to give a care in the world that someone was going to die of sexual frustration right in front of him. Worst public servant ever.

He huffed and stared at the newspaper, daring the moving images of Quidditch players to antagonize him. If they had any sympathy whatsoever, they’d have fellated their brooms in solidarity.

How could Potter and Weasley _function_ while a human pyre of desire just sat smoldering in front of them? It was beyond inhumane.

“Stop glaring at me through the newspaper.”

Draco hid his face in his arms and tried to slow his breathing. He hadn’t realized he was near panting. “I’m going to go… take a nap,” he lied, already considering which part of the bedroom he was going to bite off an embarrassingly fast orgasm in.

He hopped to his feet with every intention of wanking in bed and hoping Percy, the obtuse fuckface, didn’t hear him. “Malfoy, I’m going to need you to test this in a minute.” Percy’s sharp voice interrupted, echoing slightly inside the fireplace.

Draco rolled his eyes and adjusted his swollen cock inside his pajama bottoms for the umpteenth time. He mentally added six months to the grudge he was planning to hold against Percy Cockblocker Weasley.

For lack of anything to do, he wandered behind Harry to pretend to read over his shoulder. Harry’s hand left the paper to raise a spoonful of oatmeal, but he froze as his phone vibrated against the table.

Draco leaned down to snarf the proffered bite and grimaced. Bland mush coated his tongue where he’d expected sweetness. “Ugh, needs sugar,” he scoffed, swallowing.

The damned oatmeal was so bland, he could still smell his shampoo on the dark mop of hair next to his face.

Harry shrugged, setting the spoon in the bowl and grabbing his phone. “You think everything needs sugar.” He tilted the screen and tapped out a message. “Hermione’s going to stop by with your forms, Percy.”

Draco groaned and buried his face in Harry’s hair. It was unreal how strands so soft could manage to stand up at such angles. “ _Please make him leave_ ,” Draco muttered, softer than a whisper. “I am going to _die_ if you and Granger are both here and-“

He paused as she tapped on the ward, and he admitted her. Expedient little paper shuffler. His hands gripped Harry’s shoulders through his rough-knit gray cotton jumper, and he fought the urge to let them start sliding down the other man’s chest, not trusting himself to stop.

“And what?” Harry asked with a smirk, folding the newspaper over his crotch and leaning his head back against Draco’s shoulder. That bloody _smirk_.

Draco’s mouth grazed the edge of Harry’s stubble, and he drew back. Snogging in front of Percy Weasley held little appeal and much potential for further frustration.

“Malfoy! Come over and try it out, then I’m done.” Percy put his hands on his hips and surveyed his work like an overgrown, office-dwelling leprechaun. “It should cooperate with the Ministry ward and bypass your own wards.”

With a dramatic sigh and roll of his eyes, he sauntered over to Percy and the fireplace.

“Harry, I registered it to Hermione,” he prattled on, “since she can’t have one in her Muggle building, and you already have your Ministry-issued residential Floo in your flat. I figured keeping Malfoy’s name entirely off it was best. Hope that’s okay.”

“Uhm, yeah, Percy.” Harry said, drawing a deep breath. “That’s brilliant, actually. Thank you.”

Draco fidgeted in front of the fireplace, rather grateful he’d chosen tight pants under baggy pajamas in his earlier haste. Percy held out a bowl of Floo powder expectantly and he took a handful. 

Grains sifted from his fist to land on the floor. The only Floo he’d stepped into years was in the Azkaban lobby, which always spat him out in a public Floo. Having his own access felt intrusively good, even if he ended up fielding calls for Granger. It might be incredibly fun to be Hermione Granger’s secretary.

“I can’t travel without my keeper over there,” he said to Percy, nodding toward the table.

Percy shrugged, hands quickly packing his bag. “Call somebody you know who has a residential Floo and just stick your head through. That should be alright. Right, Harry?”

Harry nodded, finishing off his abysmally flavorless oatmeal. _Gruel_ , Draco thought, then frowned at the possible implications of why Potter would be used to such fare.

He must have thought too long, because Percy cleared his throat and jostled his packed bag; ready to depart. “Who has a Floo and might be home? I would say Firecall the Burrow, but I know Mum’s out in the garden.”

Dozens of parlors and sitting rooms from a previous life skittered through his head. None were places he wanted to go or contained people he wanted to see. Even fewer were inhabited by people who wanted to see _him_.

Harry had seated himself on the hearth, knee bouncing in anticipation as he typed on his mobile. “Pansy has a Floo in her flat in London. She says she’s home.”

“Pansy has a mobile, too?” Draco asked, both surprised and not. They were becoming fashionable. Pansy Parkinson having one practically _declared_ it fashionable.

Harry nodded and hummed in agreement. “Go on, then. She says she’s ‘waiting for your disgusting lanky blond pelt to pop through’.”

Draco huffed a laugh. That was definitely Pansy. And he hadn’t seen her since her last birthday visit. He threw the powder and watched the familiar green flames rise. 

“Parkinson Pussy Palace,” he enunciated carefully. Percy rolled his eyes, arms crossed, thoroughly unamused that anyone could have _fun_ in the use of magical transportation.

Harry ignored him, nervously biting a cuticle and texting.

————————

“I want to see!” Draco mewled, craning his neck. A firm grip on the waistband of his pajama bottoms pulled him back. Potter should just come through with him, he thought.

“Be patient! I’m zipping it up!” Pansy came round the corner back to her living room, tugging a tight black dress down around her thighs. “Well?”

He cocked his head in consideration, fully aware that his authority as a wardrobe critic was compromised by his position on his hands and knees, half-through the Floo in her flat. 

The slick polished tile under his hands was very Pansy. Very modern to have a fireplace flush with the floor and no hearth to sit on. Heat without comfort. So Parkinson.

“I think the grey one is better if you think she puts out on the first date, and the black one is better if she doesn’t,” he assessed. “Pans, slide that footstool over. If I’m going to dress you for your date, I’m not going to do it while my hands go numb.”

Her phone chirped on the tile next to him as he folded his arms on the white leather of the little square footstool. It looked like a very expensive marshmallow cube, and he considered biting it. Just a little.

Harry’s name showed on the screen, but the message was hidden. She snatched the phone up and grinned.

Another tug on his waistband made him drag the footstool a little closer to the fireplace. Potter was probably bored and told Pansy to send him home. Hermione should be at his door in a few minutes.

Pansy sat down suddenly in front of him, drawing his hands out from under his chin. Obligingly, he watched her, gaze soft, as she splayed his fingers out on top of the leather. 

A split-second concern over his unmanicured nails was interrupted by her drawing her wand from the dress. “ _Collotu._ ” 

“Why the fuck are my hands glued to a footstool?” he asked with an annoyed scoff. “You know I can’t use magic away from home.”

Her phone vibrated again, and she licked her lips.

“This isn’t a great position if we’re going to play the ‘Close Your Eyes and Pretend Draco is Paris Hilton’ game, Pans,” he complained. “And it’s not even my birthday-“

A firm yank down on his pajamas made him gasp. The soft fabric fell down around his knees, a chill immediately following.

Something traced up his thigh to his underwear. His skin crawled at the sudden and impersonal touch. A wand. The firm point slid under the tight fabric, and his pants Vanished. His cock fell free and his breath hitched.

His hands stuck tight to the leather as he tried to pull himself up.

“Different game, love,” she said lasciviously. “One I think you’ll like a whole lot more.”

His pulse thundered in his chest as feet, _Harry’s_ feet, nudged his knees apart on the hearth. Goosebumps ran up his arms and legs knowing he was on full display, and he had absolutely no idea what the other man was doing. Or going to do.

Cold metal and warm fabric slid down the backs of his thighs to pool between his knees. Oh, gods, he thought. Harry’s belt and trousers. Followed by the whisper of those tatty blue boxers, but more slowly. The soft weathered cotton traced its way over his ass and down the backs of his thighs.

“Pans…” he whimpered, hiding his face in the footstool. Her hands slid into his; fingers between splayed fingers.

“It’ll stop if you want it to stop,” she said as her touch skimmed the scars between his fingers.

“It’s just…” he trailed off, a faint shaking of Harry’s ankles against the insides of his knees drawing his attention. “…dangerous.”

Fucking hell, he knew the rhythm of that shaking. He’d watched during their bath this morning.

 _Oh, shit_ , he thought, cock hardening at a near-painful pace. Harry was going to come on his ass. Morgana’s menses, this was a ferociously terrible idea.

“Dove, do you trust him?” She interrupted his rather aroused panic with her fingers in his hair. He laid his cheek down on the soft leather, licked his lips, and tried to think about anything but what Harry looked like standing over his ass.

“I do, I just-” A sudden cold draft skated across his naked body, and he shivered. The door opening and closing, he realized with a frown. “Granger’s there.”

Would Harry stop with her there? Would they leave him stuck to a footstool with his arse in the air while they went and fucked on his bed?

Pansy’s phone vibrated again and Hermione’s name slid across the screen. She read it with another smirk. _Fucking Slytherins_ , he thought.

“You _planned_ this, didn’t you? You cotton-cunted bitch.” 

Pansy cackled and gripped his hair. Her legs wrapped around the footstool as she rested her chin on the leather next to his face.

“Ah, _va te faire foutre_ , Parkinson,” he hissed through gritted teeth as the faint shaking of Potter’s ankles and shins intensified. “I hope you get stood up by your Muggle slag tonight.”

Silently, he was grateful she’d anchored the footstool. The urge to lean back and offer his hips up to Harry was overwhelming. Doing so would have resulted in a probation-violating naked tangle. _That_ mental image wasn’t going to help him hold still.

Circe’s slit, don’t think about Harry, he told himself. Do _not_ think about the massive cock, and those deep uninhibited moans, and his rough hand gripping the mantle while the other one fists his cock until he-

Hot streaks landed on his lower back, and he gasped, turning to moan into the leather. More drops trailed down the cleft of his cheeks, sliding over his hole and making him shudder.

Breath slowing, he tried to lift his hands, but she hadn’t unstuck him yet. “Pans, I’ve got a cock to-“

With a soft skid, a lacy blue bra slid out of the fireplace to gather against Pansy’s foot. She snatched it up eagerly and pressed it to her face, inhaling deeply. 

“And now I know what Granger’s tits smell like,” she examined the bra, holding it over her own chest. “I might keep this. You know, in case the Muggle does stand me up. Or maybe I’ll wear it while I fuck her.”

He was only half-listening to her lingerie perversions, distracted by the soft whisper of draped fabric randomly tracing his back and side. What the fuck were they doing on his hearth?

Fingers gripped his lower thigh, tugging his knee up, and he let the hand raise his knee and set it back down onto something soft. The hand, Hermione’s hand by the feel of it, did the same on the other side. His anxiety abated slightly.

They apparently weren’t done with him, but at least they were concerned with his comfort. Reassuring.

Pansy had put the bra on over her dress and was turning her chest to admire it. 

“ _Salope_ ,” he muttered. She stuck her tongue out at him and winked.

Hermione definitely filled it out better, and he wondered what they were doing. Did Harry have his hands all over those breasts right now? Were they plotting something? The streaks of come on his back and ass had gotten cold, and embarrassment was starting to replace arousal.

Pansy’s phone vibrated against the tile and he grimaced. She tapped out a reply and hugged her arms around his head.

He opened his mouth to play-bite her arm but soft fingertips trailed up his inner thigh, and his whole body shivered.

“I hope she throws her knickers through.” Pansy mused, brushing his hair away from his upturned cheek. “I bet she’s completely soaked them, the greedy little witch.”

He hummed in agreement and thought of Hermione’s wet pussy, but startled when a warm hand wrapped around his length and _squeezed_. A deep groan shook his chest, and Pansy caught his lips in a grazing kiss.

The hand started stroking in a steady rhythm and he sighed as he let his hips move with her. The angle kept changing, like she was moving around. It worried him, but the pleasure building in his pelvis overrode logical thought.

Something hot and wet slicked across his lower back, and he yelped in surprise. It trailed down one side of his ass, and over his hip while the hand kept its rhythm.

 _Oh, gods below,_ he thought, _she was licking Harry’s come._

Teeth grazed his hip bone before she nipped a hot line to the base of his cock. Slick heat enveloped one side of his sac, then the other, and he squirmed at the tugging suction.

Her hand drifted back between his thighs as warm lips slid over the head of his cock, not pausing as she slid the length of him as deeply as she could.

Her tongue pressed against the underside of his impossibly hard length, and he whimpered, knowing he wouldn’t last much longer. A soft shudder escaped him, and he buried his face in the white leather. 

“Don’t hide, doll,” Pansy whispered, as she gently tugged his hair to lay his cheek against the footstool. She laid soft kisses across his forehead, kissing away the trail of an unexpected tear as it ran across the bridge of his nose.

The hand between his thighs had crept steadily up his backside, wiping up droplets of come on the way to his ass.

“Shit,” he whispered, as the fingers slicked Harry’s fluids against the puckered entrance. His breaths grew ragged, and he fought to keep his hips still, now that they were pinned between her fingers and her mouth.

A come-coated fingertip breached his entrance, and he groaned, low and greedy. Her finger slicked more drops into him as he panted, cheek plastered to the leather with sweat.

Waves of pleasure ricocheted from his ass down his cock at every motion her finger made. The finger changed angles, stretching him slightly, and he spread his knees wider in anticipation.

Hermione crooked the last knuckle forward and _pressed_ against the deepest root of him. His hips snapped forward as pleasure whited out his vision, and he throbbed against her finger. 

The waves rolled down through his cock as he came into her waiting, eager mouth. He tried to muffle his moans in the leather, but Pansy pulled him up by his hair.

He was vaguely aware that he was panting swear words as Pansy’s mouth found his, delving into a deep kiss. Moaning, he sighed and kissed her back.

The finger behind him withdrew, but not before giving one more perfunctory crook against his prostate. Hermione was rewarded with a final involuntary thrust into her mouth.

Her lips slid closed at the tip of his cock, sealing the deed with a last lick, and he felt her slide out from under him between his legs.

With a wicked grin, he licked Pansy’s face, from her chin all the way up her eyebrows. She snorted in disgust and backed up.

Her wand flicked, and she released his hands. He shook his head and scooted the footstool away. 

Oncoming fatigue made him eye the hard tile warily. Gods, he was exhausted. And boneless. And hungry.

“Time to go home, love,” Pansy said softly, still seated in front of him. “I expect dinner invitations from you from now on, you know?”

“I… Yeah. I can make you dinner.” Everything felt fuzzy, and he wasn’t entirely sure what she meant.

“Hey. Jacked-on Bollocks’ masterpiece.” He looked up, putting effort into focusing on her face. “Crawl backwards.”

“Oh…” He did as he was told, startled to find himself in his own living room. The hearth was cold under his thighs and ass as he turned and sat.

Harry stood behind Hermione, one hand working between her legs as she melted into him. They were both stark naked.

Pansy’s dark hair came through Floo after him. “Hi, pervs. Feed him and tuck him in. Granger?” She inquired, waiting for Hermione’s eyes to open. “I’m keeping this bra. Ooh, and these knickers. Yoinks! Sex tax.” 

She leveled her gaze to Harry. “Potter, seriously. Snacks and snuggles.”

Harry nodded to Pansy’s disappearing head and released Hermione.

Draco held his head in his hands, very seriously considering a nap on the stone hearth, when an enormous cock bobbed up in front of him. His hand reached out of its own accord, only to find itself slapped away. Rude.

The impolite cock returned, now hidden in horribly tight pants. He didn’t bother trying to touch it again, though it did look like it wanted him to free it from its textile entrapment.

“Want to eat oatmeal in bed?” Harry's arm scooped around Draco’s back.

“She shoved your come up my ass,” He blurted out as Harry walked him to the bed. “Did you know she did that?”

Harry Potter’s come was inside him, and he was being walked to bed, and the whole situation was surreal and splendid.

“My idea,” he chuckled.

“Oh…” Draco whispered, not sure how he felt about that. Good. Just… vaguely good. And… significant?

“You…” he drawled, flopping onto the mattress “are a fucking pig, Harry Potter.”

Draco smiled softly and curled up on his side, arm thrown over a pillow, eyes already closing. 

“Yeah, maybe.” Harry shrugged and threw the duvet over him. “Probably.”

The mattress sagged behind him, solid weight curling itself against his body. A heavy arm threw itself over his waist, and warm breath puffed against his hair. They both sighed, relaxing into each other.

“Put sugar in the oatmeal, _mon cochon_ ,” he said, breaking into a yawn. “Later.”

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Porcine Proclivities

_Mon Cochon_ , _Mon Cochon_ ,  
How ever did we take so long?  
Lines in sand, daily redrawn.

Edging closer, never sated.  
Lips ‘tween teeth and breaths abated.  
Just so we could say we waited?

Sleep now, _Mon Coeur_ , my cur, my love.  
Embraces I’m unworthy of.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan, Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	30. Aurors.  Do.  NOT.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT.  
> Aurors do not... They don’t... Merlin’s tits.  
> Aurors do _not_ get ridden reverse-cowgirl by members of the Wizengamot while an alabaster-carved sex god fucks her mouth next to the Auror’s face.  
> They. Do. Not. Do. That.  
> Except when they absolutely, enthusiastically, vociferously do.  
> FLUFF.  
> Aurors don’t cry when someone kisses them.  
> They don’t.  
> They absolutely do not. Not even when someone slowly, tenderly presses his lips to their forehead because it’s difficult to snog someone who’s softly sobbing.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Corpsecakes

If the wages of Sin be Death,  
Your Death Eater, I’ll gladly be.

If the price of pleasure’s pain,  
little fear in me remains.

Like sickly tallow becomes light,  
As diamonds shine after the cut  
_Bien sûr_ , Sin Eaters bring delight!

Sweat and tears like acid rain,  
Welcome! Here begins my reign.

Bring your all, Master of Death  
Siren call; a feast for me.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

Hell of a welcome, Hermione thought as Crookshanks glared at her from the arm of the sofa. She’d bundled herself in a blanket and sat down across from him. Harry’s blanket from his flat, she noticed. She nuzzled into it and tried to ignore the dampness between her thighs.

She’d been expecting a polite chat with Percy Weasley upon opening the door, not… _that_. Not the _Head Fucking Auror_ coming loudly with a death grip on the mantle while his parolee was stuck with his bare ass hanging out of a fireplace.

Crooks chirruped a greeting as said Head Auror strutted nude out of the bedroom and scratched the cat between the ears. With one last sidelong feline glare at her, he trotted into the bedroom, already purring.

Harry puttered in the kitchen, movements deliberately shushed as he assembled a bowl of oatmeal. He ladled in an enormous spoonful of brown sugar and stirred it gently.

Hermione’s lips parted in soft surprise. He was making Draco a bowl of oatmeal, and it was _adorable_. Harry Potter was going to serve Draco Malfoy breakfast in bed. There weren’t really words for the burning sentiment in her chest, nor for the echoing heat in her groin.

Harry disappeared into the bedroom, and she heard the bowl clink onto the ledge above the bed. The completed forms on the coffee table caught her eye, so she leaned over to examine them, still naked in Harry’s blanket.

“How or why did you misspell both _Wheel_ and _Elven_ on these forms?” Hermione asked, examining the paperwork with her name on it. “Is that supposed to be a SPEW reference?”

Harry leaned over the back of the couch, returning from the bedroom.

“Draco said the original name of the property was Cligga Head to Muggles, and Wheal Cligga with the Ministry. I guess it was abandoned by wizard prospectors centuries before Muggles tried to mine it. So he kept the Wheal part, ‘cause it’s still a mine.”

Hermione’s hand drifted between her thighs as she leaned back onto the couch. Logs thunked into the fireplace, and Harry lit them with a quick spell. He seemed in no hurry to dress, nor did she want him to. 

“But why elves?” She tried to keep her gaze above his shoulders and failed immediately. 

He strutted over to the massive table and began stacking dishes, as if he often did housework in the nude. Maybe he did, for all she knew. “Not elves. Ron said the granite with all the crystals in it or whatever is called Elvan. I don’t know. It was a really boring conversation.”

“Oh, yeah. He mentioned something this morning about blasting out an inside balcony and cellar in here.” The hand between her thighs slid fingers into her slick cleft, idly stroking.

“Hopping between one bed and the next this morning, esteemed Councilwoman Granger? Wondered why you showed up already wet.”

His eyes flicked up and down her blanket-robed form, a hint of suspicion peeking through.

“I wish. Any kind of… intimacy at the Burrow is a bit of a challenge.” Understatement, she thought. Every time she and Ron had gotten much past kissing, someone had come thundering through the living room, or knocked on Ron’s bedroom door. Even first thing in the morning.

Dishes dealt with, he flopped down on the couch opposite her. He looked more at ease than she’d ever seen him. His body practically melted against the arm of the sofa, and his face was placid, but not at all tired. He bit a lip as he watched her shoulder as her hand stroked idly.

“You know you two could come here. Ron put beds in some of the other rooms.” He inclined his head toward one of the unused rooms on the other side of the kitchen. Little more than a dark entryway. “Not that Draco would probably care if you used his. Kind of picky about this sofa, though.”

She barked a short laugh. “What did you do?”

“He made me do test patches on the backs of the cushions with different cleaning charms before taking care of… a bit of a mess.” A dumb grin split his face. “Anyway, feel free. At least you got the Weasley breakfast spread today, though.”

Harry scooted forward and slid the blanket up her legs to her thighs. She gulped and tried to ignore his slow encroachment.

“No, again. Molly’s been working in the kitchen non-stop but not feeding anybody.” 

His hands parted the blanket over her hips and he licked his lips at the sight. She resisted the impulse to withdraw her fingers and play dumb. He hummed low in approval as she continued rubbing her clit in an idle holding pattern.

“Yeah, Ron mentioned she’s been in a bit of a state since the trial,” Harry muttered distractedly.

Few things were less arousing than trials and mother figures, but having a very fit, and seemingly very eager man hovering over her legs watching her touch herself more than compensated.

Rough, warm hands gripped her ankles, and she squeaked in surprise as she was yanked down flat onto the sofa. Her body slid through the blanket, and he spread her knees.

“ _Harry!_ ” she hissed. Her lower half was exposed and spread, while her torso and head had slid down inside the blanket. An undignified pose if ever there were one.

Warm palms slid up her inner thighs, and she groaned. “So… here or down in the spring?”

“Spring.”

————————————

He flicked a weak _Lumos_ toward the ceiling of the spring as Hermione came down the ladder. Bathing in the dark was fine by him, but damned if he was going to deprive himself of watching Hermione Granger in the nude.

Her thighs disappeared into the water, followed by the soft curve of her hips, stopping just above her waist as her feet found the floor. She was so soft, but such an absolute hardass. Maybe that was why he liked her, though. Draco was turning out to be the opposite. Hard, angular body but surprisingly gentle.

One wolf in sheep’s clothing, and one sheep in wolf’s clothing, he mused. And would he want them reversed? A soft, cuddly, curvy Hermione and a shrewd, argumentative, lithe Draco? Absolutely not. That sounded boring on one end and scary on the other. Best of both worlds, this way.

“What if we wake him up?” She looked up the ladder as she whispered. Her hands held her hair up out of the water as she sank down to her shoulders. A soft sigh escaped as the hot water lapped up to her chin.

“He likes a good show. I’m more worried I’ll get a talking to from Shacklebolt about abusing my authority. Taking advantage of innocent Wizengamot witches and all.”

He hopped up onto the ledge and watched her drift toward him, hair carefully held high.

“Oh, like you outrank me, _Harry_.” She stood and sloshed over toward him, slick, wet breasts held proud like weapons. His hand found his cock and squeezed.

“I absolutely outrank you,” she said with a glare as she stood between his knees. She eyed his position thoughtfully and swung a leg up onto the ledge, coming to crawl toward him.

“Do not,” he retorted, hardening length responding rapidly to her predatory stalk.

“You don’t outrank anyone outside the DMLE, _Harry_.” She glared at him, somehow terrifying but thrilling as she lowered her head and slid her mouth over the head of his cock.

He groaned, low and needy, as she took him in deep.

“Head Auror…” He trailed off as her mouth rose and slid back down his length again. “…absolutely outranks…” Her tongue swirled over the tip of him, and his hips jerked. “…a Wizengamot member.”

Her head popped up, and she straddled his hips. The sudden glaring challenge at eye-level excited him more than he felt it should. But she didn’t exactly seem turned off by arguing during foreplay. If anything, he thought she seemed to be enjoying it.

“Do, too. I’m the Chairwoman of the Wizard Rights Committee now. And I’ve been asked to be on several others, but we haven’t met yet.”

Carefully, she balanced on the balls of her feet over him, and he wrapped a hand around his cock, sliding it against her slick slit, up to her clit and back again. She moaned softly in approval.

“Council. Woman. Granger,” she said haughtily.

“Head. Auror.”

The fingertips of his free hand rested against the front of her shoulder, and she paid it no mind. He grinned wickedly at her obliviousness. Gently, he nudged.

“Brightest Witch-“ She fell back in a loud kerplunk, a resounding splash, and an abbreviated squawk. Harry belted a laugh while she was underwater, and stifled it when her head surfaced.

 _Steam_ rose from her hair as she stood, eyes piercing in the low light. The water in the spring never steamed. Terror and arousal coursed through him as she rose, and his hand found his cock again.

“Ahh, a sea hag!” he feigned, hiding his cock in both hands.

Steam rolled off her skin as she walked toward him, murder in her eyes.

“Oh, shit,” he giggled to himself, half in fear.

“You’re going to regret that,” she spat, climbing back onto the ledge, and back onto his lap.

“You say that, ‘Mione, but I feel like you’re going to reward me for it.”

Her hands threaded through his hair and tightened into an immobilizing grip. He groaned and thrust up toward her. The tension and edge of pain rolled through him and tore a gasp from his lips. She hummed low in satisfaction as she sank down onto his cock.

Her weight shifted uncertainly as the rough stone bit into her knees. He slid his palms under them and she nodded. Her weight eased onto his hands as she took his length.

He leaned into her grip on his hair as her tight heat stroked his cock. Soft, panting breaths fell from both of them.

Experimentally, he tugged against his pinned hands. Excitement jolted through him at the confinement. “Gods, ‘Mione.”

“Fuck, Harry,” she chanted, tightening around him.

Pressure built in his hips as her strokes grew faster. She drove him deep inside her and he let the pressure unspool, throbbing as she ground against him.

Her hands released his hair and cupped the back of his head, holding his forehead against hers. He slid his hands out from under her knees and gripped her ass.

“I could write you a citation for that, Councilwoman Granger.”

“I could have you written up for wrecking my hair.”

Harry shrugged and let a lazy grin spread across his face. She really was a terrier of a woman, and he loved it.

“Maybe we’ll have to braid it before we let you go.”

She slid off his lap and lay down on the ledge next to him, thighs over his legs.

“Do you…” she stammered. “Are you sure?”

“Mm hmm,” he hummed teasingly. “We’ve compared notes.”

“Oh…” she whispered, eyes distant. “Okay, then.”

——————————

Draco woke to a splash and yelling, but managed to doze off briefly.

When awakened by Harry moaning _loudly_ , as he was wont to do, it was much more difficult to get back to sleep. The loudly-purring Kneazle and wafting scent of brown sugar didn’t help.

He sat in bed, slowly eating a bowl of oatmeal, listening to the man he loved argue with the woman he… loved? Respected immensely? Was planning on raising children with? He shrugged and fished out a lump of brown sugar. 

He sucked the air out from between the sugar granules and let them fill back in with saliva as Harry’s grunts and moans escalated. Spoon hovering, he flicked it toward the doorway in punctuation as Harry climaxed. Good acoustics, this mineshaft.

The Kneazle showed him its belly, and he squinted in suspicion. Hand on his furry noggin, he slithered a small touch of Legilimency into the beast.

_I’m never leaving, man-bird.  
No more flats.  
No more days alone.  
No more KIBBLE._

“Huh,” he huffed. “Articulate for someone who licks his own ass, aren’t you?”

His haughtiness disappeared under the knowledge that there would likely be hypocritical licking of asses in this bed within the next few weeks.

“You can stay, but if you shit or piss in my house, I will feed you nothing but aspic and pressed ham while I eat all the salmon.”

The cat rose, turned, stretched, demonstrably getting his anus entirely too close to Draco’s oatmeal, and hopped off the bed.

A dripping-wet Hermione tiptoed between the bookcase, startling a bit as she noticed him sitting up in bed.

“Hi,” she whispered, as if still afraid of waking him. “Came in for a towel. Sorry.”

“You two are not exactly quiet, _ma chatte_ ,” he mumbled around another bite of oatmeal. “I was a little concerned someone was going to get hexed in the bath.”

“Ah, no.” She dried off, conspicuously skipping her groin, and quickly wound her hair up in the towel. “We sorted it out. Are you staying in bed? I could do with a nap before I have to go.”

“I may stay in bed, but I don’t plan on sleeping.” He set the bowl on the ledge and scooted over, inviting her in.

She slid between the sheets with a content sigh, head on his shoulder. The mounded towel next to his face was awkward, he thought. 

His trapped hand snuck a finger between her slick folds, and she gasped. “ _Ma chatte_ , you are too generous.”

—————————————

Harry was not hiding in the spring from Hermione. Auror’s don’t… well, maybe Aurors _do_ hide from Wizengamot members. Wizengamot members whose hair they’d submerged in water like movie gremlins.

He chuckled softly to himself as he relaxed into the warm stone under him. Absolute silence, save the sound of his own breathing. The ringer on his mobile had been quiet for the first time in days, and damned if he hadn’t earned some time off.

The Auror team had struck out with the _Revelio_ funneled through Molly, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He didn’t like Molly being involved, but she was the best link they had to Liore. The only sane witness to the child’s life. 

The knitting spells they’d tried to track must have worn off. Or, more likely, his hunch that Liore had been buried in the blanket from Molly was incorrect. But it _felt_ right, and bothered the hell out of him.

Soft moans from Hermione drifted down the entrance to the spring, and he grinned. That didn’t sound like hair being braided. Not yet, anyway.

“Potter!” Draco shouted. “Put the kettle on while I clean up your mess, you gorgeous disaster!”

He snorted a laugh and drifted over to the ladder.

Murmurs of conversation, punctuated by whispered moans and low chuckles filled the empty air of the home as he made tea. _Gorgeous disaster_. His shoulders wiggled happily as he leaned on the counter, waiting for the kettle.

Hermione barked a laugh, Draco shouted something incomprehensible in French, the kettle whistled, and Harry thought his heart might explode right in his chest. It was all too perfect.

He had a best mate, a best girl, a boyfriend, and realized maybe it didn’t matter how Draco would have answered his question yesterday about dating. He arranged a hasty tray of tea, lost in his own thoughts. Draco didn’t seem eager to be out on the prowl.

And even if Draco had told him he _could_ go out and shag whoever he wanted, he couldn’t see himself doing it. Nor did he really have any desire to pick back up dating insipid fangirls and women with ulterior motives.

No, this was working out splendidly. Even the sodding _tea_ was better. Better-served, too, he thought as he examined the mugs. Nicer than the dumb, trendy blown-glass pair at his flat that had to be handled like… well, like glass. His stupid flat. His stupid, empty, boring, flat that he’d have to return to in two weeks.

He made his way to the bedroom and nearly dropped the tray as he was greeted with a full-on view of Draco’s bent-over arse. Hermione’s legs were spread wide, Draco’s hands anchored firmly behind her knees. Helpless, begging pleas fell from her lips, and blood rushed to Harry’s cock at the sight and sound of it all.

He cleared his throat conspicuously. “I don’t think either of you really want tea.”

Draco’s head popped up, and he bit Hermione on the thigh before rolling over and scooting up next to her. He grinned and wiped a hand down his face before pinning Harry with his gaze and licking the hand clean.

Harry swallowed thickly. It hadn’t occurred to him yet that Draco had never tasted him. Only the other way around. He wanted to crawl on top of him and kiss it back out of his mouth, but settled for a deep, shuddering inhale instead. He was entirely too naked to risk that. 

And they hadn’t actually kissed other than the brief one Harry had delivered yesterday between _I love you_ s on the couch. There was no reason they _couldn’t_. It would be a lot more physical contact than the casual touches they’d been indulging in.

“ _Mon cochon_ , you made quite a mess, you know,” Draco purred.

Harry set the tray on the ledge, well to the side of the bed. “At least I sent a _Thank you_ note afterward. I ought to send you an apology,” Harry mocked. “I may have made promises of braided hair.”

“Potter,” Draco said dryly. “It is not even noon, and you’re planning a fourth go at it? That I’m aware of, at least.”

Hermione snorted a laugh and buried her face in Draco’s shoulder. “I seem to remember someone trying to convince me he _wasn’t_ an inexhaustible semen supply.”

Harry slid under the duvet behind Hermione, profoundly aware of the fact that he was naked in the same bed as Draco. And not terribly far away from him. In fact, if he rolled over and hugged Hermione, there was a distinct possibility his hand would graze Draco’s cock.

He settled for laying flat on his back, scowling at the ceiling. “Should we really do this?” he asked neither of them, in particular.

“It’s considered incredibly bad manners to make offers of a braided nature that you don’t intend to fulfill,” Draco chastised, coming up on his elbow to look at Harry. “Makes witches all frustrated and whatnot.”

Hermione rolled over and threw an arm and leg over Harry. Draco melded himself behind her, but kept his hand on his own hip. Her fingers rubbed Harry’s chest and slid lower. Draco’s lips skimmed her neck, but his eyes watched Harry. 

“ _Ma chatte_ , I have an exceptionally filthy idea, but I’d rather not say it out loud,” he whispered, well-within Harry’s hearing.

Harry blinked rapidly as a cold breeze skimmed under his glasses and immediately disappeared. “Are you wankers using Legilimency? In bed? Seriously?”

Draco shot him a mischievous grin while Hermione gulped air and wrapped her fingers around Harry’s cock. He was almost hard again, and it was almost embarrassing. _Almost._

“Uhm, yes,” Hermione stammered. “A little. And uhm… with good reason.”

“Harry,” Draco teased, “be a dear and sit this witch on your lovely cock while I braid her hair. It will certainly get in the way.”

————————————

Aurors do not…. They don’t…. Merlin’s tits. Aurors do _not_ sit up in bed and get ridden reverse-cowgirl by members of the Wizengamot while an alabaster-carved sex god fucks her mouth next to the Auror’s face. They. Do. Not. Do. That.

Except when they absolutely, enthusiastically, vociferously do. 

And Harry James Potter was literally balls-deep in that particular scenario as he wondered if he was moaning too loudly next to Hermione’s ear. The stone ledge behind his back was coarse, but grounding. He tightened his grip on her slowly-grinding hips, if for nothing more than to keep his hands from drifting up to the hard length presented before him.

Feathered caresses and glances of cool magic flicked around his eyes as Hermione and Draco communicated wordlessly. An unspoken union that he both envied and thrilled in. They adjusted angles, changed pace, and all without so much as a glance to him. It was simultaneously impersonal and indulgent.

It was a tossup, really, which would make him come first. Would it be the tight, slick heat of Hermione’s pussy stroking up and down his own cock? Or the lewd wet sounds of Draco’s cock thrusting into her eager mouth? Both, probably.

No, he thought. It would be the grey eyes looking at _him_ the whole time. Not her. _Him._

“ _Ma chatte_ , you are so thoughtful,” Draco murmured, and Harry wondered if he’d meant to say it out loud. Stormy eyes focused on his as Draco thrust into her mouth, bottom lip between his teeth.

Dark ash-blond eyebrows quirked in interest, and he looked down at her. Harry couldn’t see her face, only the side of her head, but she must have agreed with Draco.

Long, slender fingers drifted from atop her head to grasp Harry’s hair. He groaned at the touch, realizing how much he’d wanted to bridge that gap. Like a circuit completed, a jolt thrilled through him.

Her hips swiveled on him in short, fast strokes, as her mouth did the same. Harry felt tension building in his hips, followed by worry he was too far ahead of Draco.

Warm fingertips trailed down his cheek to rest on his lips, and his hand left her hip to press a kiss into them. Grey eyes watched him eagerly, and he parted his lips, accepting the welcome intrusion.

“ _Mon cochon…_ ” Draco’s eyelids fluttered, head tilted forward, as he watched his fingers disappear between Harry's lips.

Hermione’s eager moans around Draco’s cock reached a staccato pitch as she sank, hips grinding, and groaned. Her core tightened around Harry’s cock, and the tension in his hips unspooled into her as he sucked eagerly at the fingers in his mouth.

Draco came in a soft shout, and Harry watched Hermione’s jaw work, even as Draco’s eyes stayed on Harry’s lips.

“ _Joli truiette_ ,” Draco murmured, half-dazed. He pulled his fingers from Harry’s reluctant mouth, thumb grazing over Harry’s lips. “Pretty little trout.”

Hermione released his cock with a final swirl of her tongue, and he grinned down at her with a conspiratorial glance. She turned to Harry, lips pursed, smile teasing.

“I think she has something for you, _mon cochon_ ,” he sighed. “If you want it.”

Harry grunted as Hermione wiggled her hips, sensitivity setting in. Her lips met his, followed by an unexpected, familiar, salty rush. With a groan, he opened his mouth to her, tongue chasing the remnants Draco had left.

Satisfied, she withdrew with a final peck to his chin, and clumsily rolled off of him to bonelessly flop on her side. A sigh fluttered through her as she nestled into the duvet bunched up near Draco’s knees.

“Council Member Granger has yielded the boar,” Draco mocked, addressing Hermione’s ass, “if you do not object, I’d quite like to snog this hog a while.”

A low, annoyed groan emanated from her as she rolled onto her back. “I have a briefing I should attend. Is it bad manners if I leave?”

Draco shrugged, an everything and nothing gesture. “I’d rather you stay, but you _have_ gotten rather important.”

Harry drew a breath, realizing they were both watching him. He’d been rather preoccupied with whatever _snog the hog_ meant. “Yeah, ‘Mione. Same here.”

“Noooo….” she moaned. “You’re supposed to tell me to stay in bed.”

Draco fell on to all fours over her and nuzzled dramatically between her breasts. “Go, little terrier. But leave the braid in.”

“Will people know?” She lifted her head to look at him as he trailed idle kisses down her sternum.

He shrugged again. “Purebloods will know. Maybe some others from older families.”

Her head flopped back down and she reached out to trail fingers down Harry’s thigh as he watched their conversation.

“Will they…” she started. “Will they think less of me for it, Draco?”

He huffed a small breath just above her navel. “Hardly. A wedded witch has the backing of one. A woven witch has several in her corner. Quite the power move, really.”

Her hands pulled Draco’s head up to look at her, judging his sincerity suspiciously. “Okay, then. I’m off. Braid and all.”

“ _Bon courage, ma chatte._ ”

———————————

Draco sighed, regretting his own word choice.

“No. _Cochon_ is not a cute term, Harry.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as he snuggled into a pillow, already resigned to perhaps _not_ snogging this hog, who apparently did not appreciate being called such.

“I don’t love it, Draco,” Harry said with a scowl.

“I… I also call Granger ‘my pussy’, and she’s well-aware of that,” he offered. “If it makes you feel any better.”

“Maybe a little. But why _that_?” Harry frowned, and Draco watched the insecurity build in him. He sat against the ledge at the head of the bed, framed by all the shiny objects Draco had scavenged from the world. Fitting, really. _Bijou_ buffet.

“Have you ever fed a pig?” Draco asked warily.

“No…” Harry drawled. “Why?”

“They’re rather well-mannered, in their own way,” Draco said, rising to sit up next to him. “There were a few in a pen across the field, behind the cottage at Durmstrang. Every time I burned dinner, which was often the first few months, I’d take it to them.”

“Not flattering,” Harry grumbled.

“Not at first, maybe. But they were so grateful and eager, that it was hard to not want to feed them _everything_ ,” he said in an excited rush. “I would bring them scorched ratatouille and they would gobble it down and look to me for more.”

“Still not flattering,” Harry replied, frown edging into a scowl.

“What they lack in refinement, they make up for in eager gratitude. An endearing kind of selfishness, _Mon Cochon_ ,” he emphasized. “I _want_ the greedy, gluttonous parts of you, Harry.”

Harry stared, stern-faced, toward the living room, avoiding Draco’s gaze. Maybe it had been too much, the nickname. Harry wasn’t wrong. It was truly unflattering, to be called a lecherous glutton in bed. 

But it wasn’t an inaccurate description of what Draco wanted from him, either. He truly _did_ want that side of Harry Potter, Head Auror. The broken, needy, wanting side of him that wasn’t satisfied with banal one-night stands. The side of him that wanted to own and be owned in return. The side of him that he’d perhaps never shown Ron or Hermione. The side of him he was likely ashamed to admit existed.

“I don’t…” Harry whispered, unsure. “I’m not greedy.”

“No,” Draco whispered back. “But… with me? You can be.”

“ _Oh…_ ”

——————————

“So, anyway, Mister Griffin,” Ron rambled as he fed the creature another hunk of Runespoor meat, “I’m gonna at least tell her I love her and see what happens.”

The Griffin whistled a middling note, and Ron decided that meant the beast agreed with his plan. They’d been sitting in quiet companionship for a solid hour, and he’d come to the conclusion that either Griffins were much more civil than he’d been led to believe, or that this one was touched in the head.

“You got any kids back in Greece?” Ron flicked scales off the outside edge of a Runespoor steak before offering it to the Griffin.

It grunted and dropped its beak. “Less to worry about then, I reckon.” Ron held the meat out, and a beak the size of his head plucked it delicately from his open palm.

“I’ll get you back home, though. Don’t worry.” Ron sighed and eyed the Griffin warily. “Wouldn’t be right to leave you here.”

The Griffin bobbed its head in agreement.

——————————

Aurors don’t cry when someone kisses them. They don’t. They absolutely do not. Not even when someone slowly, tenderly presses his lips to their forehead because it’s difficult to snog someone who’s softly sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” Harry sighed between jagged breaths. “I don’t know…”

“Shh…” Draco murmured. “It’s… expected. And why I waited.”

“You what?” Harry tucked the duvet firmly around his hips, despite the fact that Draco lay on top of it.

“I didn’t want it to turn into sex,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “So I waited. Did you think I _hadn’t_ been dying to kiss you for…”

Draco trailed off and looked out toward the living room for distraction. “For quite a long time, really.”

Emboldened, Harry grinned. “How long, then, _Malfoy_?”

Harry rolled on his side to face him. What if Ron was right? What if Draco really had been flirting with him for years in school, and he was just dense enough to not notice?

“Long enough… _Potter_ ,” Draco retorted, “that I might have a bit of a thing for dark-haired men, in general. Formative years being what they are.”

Harry belted a laugh and snuggled down under the duvet, wrapping it around his shoulders. “All the dirty pictures and videos on my mobile are of blond men. Guess we both have a certain type, huh?”

Draco huffed a laugh. “ _Proto_ types, more like.”

Harry leaned onto his back and laced his fingers behind his head, thinking. What _would_ have happened if they’d have lay together and kissed like this before? On a day where he _hadn’t_ already come four times and was downright exhausted? Would it have led to sex? _Sex_ sex?

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since I realized I didn’t want to punch you,” Harry admitted.

Draco smiled softly, beatifically. “So, a month?”

“ _Two._ ”

“Consider me flattered.” He grabbed the far edge of the duvet and threw it over himself, cocooned next to Harry, but separated by inches of downy fluff and cotton.

“Why wait, though?” Harry asked.

Had Draco been unsure of how Harry would react? Harry did have a bit of a history of telling interested men to fuck off, apparently.

“I waited for an occasion…” Draco’s jaw unhinged in a spectacular, cracking yawn. “Where you were well and truly spent, so I could kiss you without it becoming foreplay.” His eyes drifted shut and fluttered back open. “So that you would know what it is to be kissed for love, not just sex.”

His eyes slid shut, and Harry was grateful for the solitude as tears gathered against his lashes. It was true. He’d never been kissed like that. Slowly. Deliberately. Tenderly.

So different from everyone else who had kissed him as a means to an end. A handshake on the way to his cock.

Draco’s eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. “I love you, _mon coeur_.”

Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat and stroked the hair back from Draco’s forehead. “Say it again?”

A soft smile traced Draco’s lips. “I love you.”

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Wild Bore

Come now, love. Don’t pretend.  
Not in word or thought or deed.  
Go on, love. Round the bend.  
Get what you want. There’s always more.  
Giving’s vital; as is taking.

Immense, you know, what you “don’t need”.  
All things (like me) you could deplore.  
But when you fall, it’s with such _SPEED_!  
Shh, love. Better now than before?  
Shh, _mon coeur_ , there’s strength in breaking.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	31. Pushing up Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut.  
> Cute smut, sad smut, dirty smut with skirts.  
> Drarry smut, wary smut, smut with some small hurts.
> 
> Warning: Liore resolution.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Gangrenous

Lucy! Can you believe they _FOUND HER_?  
I damn near shat my pants.

What do they even _DO_ for fucked up shit like this?  
Rot down in the oubliette or let you have the Kiss?

Lucy, did you hear _HOW_ they found her?  
A knitted shroud! Right where you drowned her!

_TWO_ mothers’ love is how they found her.  
You never stood a chance.

2007 DLM Truro  
********************************

Let. Me. Drown.

Once upon a time, there was a couple,  
They killed their heir and raised the runt.

What, you’d ask, would make them pull that stunt?  
Why, my love, they didn’t think I’d be trouble.

DLM 2007 Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

Harry woke in Draco’s bed, or rather, on top of Draco’s bed. Minus the Draco. Blue-white moonlight cast austere illumination over the sheets, and Harry fumbled for his glasses.

Upon inspection, Draco wasn’t under the folds of the duvet or hidden in the copious pillows, but he couldn’t have gone far. Their sixty-foot tether meant only the living room and half the kitchen was within reach of the bed.

A rhythmic rubbing of fabric and clipped murmurs caught his ear, and he sat up to examine the sound. Was Draco scrubbing the marks on that fucking couch again? In the middle of the night? In the dark? 

Maybe scrubbing something off the rug, by the direction. Either way, obsessive housekeeping in the wee hours of the morning wasn’t healthy.

He hoisted himself to standing and a shiver thrilled down him, despite his fleece pajama bottoms and t-shirt. Whatever atmospheric charms Molly used on her garden would probably work great here, he thought, making a mental note to work on it soon. He shook his head. This wasn’t _his_ home, and his tenure as Draco’s parole Auror was up in fifteen days.

The stone floor was soothingly warm underfoot thanks to the radiant warmth of the hot spring, and Harry padded across it to the bookshelves and froze. Froze and stared.

For there, before him, in full moonlit splendor, was a very naked Draco Malfoy humping a pillow on the hearth rug. 

Harry stood, shell-shocked, not sure what a decent boyfriend does in such a position. It had taken him several moments to even realize what he was watching.

Stark light from the windows lit his blond hair and graced his skin in a way lace never could. Cold illumination glanced off the satin skirt below his hips, and cast the scene in harsh relief. It was the only harsh thing about it, though, Harry thought. 

Draco wasn’t mindlessly rutting away, but, for lack of better words, rather sensually making love to a skirt-wrapped pillow. Every few moments his head dropped to a mound of fabric on the rug, and he nuzzled into it; sometimes sighing, sometimes murmuring softly.

His hips moved gently, in a steady sway, but paused as his face rubbed against the thing on the rug. Something grey, Harry noticed. _His jumper_.

Harry held his breath, stifling a gasp. It was… sweet. And soft. And gentle.

It was everything his performance wanking wasn’t. When he was being watched, he was enticing and lewd. Self-indulgent for the showmanship of it. 

_This_ , though? This was the opposite. It was beautiful and reverent. The sacred versus the profane.

But it worried Harry. If this was what Draco did alone; if this was what he liked, should Harry discourage the knicker-ripping, ass-fingering exhibitionism?

He leaned against the bookcase, careful to stay in the shadows. Harry looked away from Draco’s jarringly tender movements to take in the rest of the room. Draco’s pajamas were neatly folded on the arm of the sofa.

Steam wafted from a mug at the near end of the dining table, and Harry wondered how he’d managed to make tea without hitting the tether. Probably some well-done wandless _Accio_ s and _Aguamenti_ s. Maybe that’s what had woken him up.

Two mugs, he noticed, leaning to the side. One had been obscured by the back of a chair. Why would Draco get up in the middle of the night and make _two_ mugs of tea, then proceed to become engrossed in a rather vivid fantasy on the rug?

A _long_ , vivid fantasy, as he didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Maybe he expected Harry to wake up at some point? Did he plan this all out with that intention?

Draco rolled over on his back with a sigh, clutching the pillow against his groin. He wadded up Harry’s jumper and pressed it over his face, like he could block out the whole room with it. His other hand held the pillow against his hidden cock while his hips worked in almost imperceptible circles.

A steady, soft murmur fell from his lips through the jumper, and Harry realized it was entirely in French. Not much insight to be had from that, then.

Niggling guilt forced his gaze away again. The mugs of tea were cooling rapidly. Each sat in front of a chair like Draco really had expected to sit down to tea together in the middle of the night.

Something pale lay on the seat of a chair, and one of Harry’s sweatshirts was thrown over the back. He hadn’t left that sweatshirt laying around like he had the jumper. Draco had to have stolen it from Harry’s dirty laundry.

So, Draco Malfoy had gotten up in the middle of the night, dug through Harry’s laundry like a sentimental Niffler, bundled a pillow in satin, and made himself two mugs of tea. The man wasn’t having a quick wank, he was on a romantic date with himself.

“ _Dans le cochon tout est bon…_ ” Draco murmured, sitting up. He threw Harry’s jumper over his shoulder and got to his feet, still hard. He hummed a soft tune under his breath as he walked to the table, pillow in one hand. “ _…De la queue jusqu’au menton._ ”

Draco hummed in thought and held his left hand in the air as he sat in the chair at the head of the table. With a flick of his fingers, a notebook and pen zipped from the ledge above his bed, past Harry’s face, and landed in Draco’s palm. His back was to Harry, but he appeared to be writing in the notebook, right hand tapping something out between fingertips.

“ _Et quelle queue, eh?_ " He chuckled lightly to himself.

He stood carefully, the chair sliding silently over the stone, and turned to the chair next to it where the other cup of tea sat. Quietly, he pulled the other chair out, and Harry swallowed a gasp.

The thing he’d glimpsed on the seat was a fucking dildo. A dildo suction-cupped to the seat and bobbing back and forth like it was waving at him.

Godric’s gonads, he should probably either go back to bed or loudly clear his throat. Either or. His cock was apparently voting to stay and watch, but he had no intention of releasing it for the show.

Maybe it made a difference, Harry thought, that he wasn’t watching to get off? Maybe it was less creepy because he was honestly far more interested just seeing Draco so incredibly _soft_.

A whispered spell and sharp gasp brought him back to the spectacle at hand. Draco was _wearing_ the sweatshirt he’d pilfered from Harry’s dirty laundry as he straddled the chair, hands on the backrest. Tentatively, he lowered himself onto the dildo.

Harry cocked his head to look. It wasn’t a small toy, if he had to guess the size. But nowhere near his own girth. Anxiety tamped his arousal down, even as Draco made some rather delicious little gasps and hummed groans. He bit a cuticle and wondered, not for the first time, whether Draco would ever be able to slide himself onto Harry’s cock like that. He shrugged to himself. If not, not.

Draco stopped as his hips sank down to the seat, and he reached behind him for… tea. Harry clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. He sat there, half-naked, bathed in moonlight, dildo squarely up his ass, drinking a cup of tea like a proper little lord.

His cock still jutted out, hard and ready, so Harry figured the tea break must have some logic behind it. Other than being a touch adorable.

Draco drained the mug and set it down as he squared his feet and started to _move_. Slow, precise, deep strokes as he readied himself.

Satisfied with his preparation, Draco leaned his elbows behind him on the table and began a quick, snapping rhythm down onto the length. This time, for pleasure, and it was obvious.

His breath hissed in as the dildo hit his prostate with each thrust, and one hand drifted down to grip his own length. Harry's hand wrapped tight around his own cock, doing nothing to stop the throbbing ache. Draco stroked in time to his hips movements as his face dropped back along his shoulder, blond hair dangling in the moonlight. 

Harry watched sweet nothings fall from his parted lips from him like amorous rain. “ _J’aime ça_ , Magnus,” he murmured as he moved.

Harry’s face dropped as his heart cracked, and a cold burn trickled behind his ribs while his cock twitched, unaware. Glass, he thought. Heart chambers pumping nothing but broken glass. His vision blurred as tears welled.

With a quiet gasp and stutter of his hips, Draco came, clutching the head of his cock in his fist. Draco sighed and reached for the other mug of tea as he stood. He casually spelled away the mess, cleaned the toy, and levitated the mugs into the sink without so much as a clink.

For the second time that night, Harry stood in the shadows, shocked into stillness. _Gods, no. I love him_ , Draco had said about Falk, then refused to elaborate on his feelings. Harry’s throat tightened, and he wished he had stayed in bed. He shouldn’t have watched. All it had gotten him were questions he couldn’t ask and suspicions he couldn’t lay to rest.

Draco popped the dildo off the chair, scooted them both in, gathered up the pillow and walked toward his folded clothes on the sofa.

Harry tip-toed back to the bed. Carefully, he eased himself on top of the duvet and pulled his blanket up. Just in time, as Draco’s shadow came through the doorway.

There was a muted scrape as Draco slid what sounded like a wooden box out from under the bed, then slid it back. _A sex toy stash?_ Harry wondered. _What else was in there?_

Through slitted lids, he watched Draco unwind the skirt and haphazardly chuck the pillow back onto the bed. 

It landed inches from Harry’s face, and he pretended to wake up with a soft grumble. Draco hurriedly stuffed Harry’s sweatshirt back in his dirty laundry, and Harry hoped his scowl wasn’t visible. He’d liked seeing Draco in the shirt right up until it became obvious it wasn’t Harry he was thinking of.

Shame burned up Harry’s cheeks. Was this why he hadn’t answered Harry’s question about dating other men? Because Draco _did_ date other men? Was Harry supposed to have just assumed that? Hell, who was he to think he was going to be the only man in Draco Malfoy’s bed?

Rather than come straight to bed, Draco wandered to the crystal ball mounted in the wall. Harry yawned loudly to announce his consciousness, but Draco ignored him. He settled his fingertips against the glassy orb for a few seconds, shrugged, and slid into bed.

Harry cleared his throat and swallowed thickly, as one does upon waking or suppressing an emotional breakdown. “No Prophecies tonight?”

“Still just muffins and burnt daffodils,” Draco whispered. “I think it’s broken.”

Harry muttered in feigned sleepy disinterest. “Muffins sound good.”

Draco whispered as he tucked the duvet up under his chin and settled in. “I love you.”

Harry rolled away to clutch a pillow as Draco’s breaths against his back slowed into a quiet, even rhythm.

Maybe Draco told everyone he slept with that he loved them. Maybe he’d said it so easily because he didn’t actually _mean_ it. For fuck’s sake, he’d just said it after wanking about Falk.

He’d misjudged their relationship, he thought. By quite a bit. 

He buried a sob in the pillow. It was a poor substitute.

—————————————

All the Goblin tellers watched Ron walk through the Gringotts lobby, and it made his skin crawl. He liked to think it was because he had the poor manners to Floo in an hour before they officially opened. He was pointedly _not_ thinking it was because they could smell Griffin or Runespoor on him. Or his rucksack, more likely.

With a furtive glance up and down the quiet hall, he knocked on the door of the Bank President’s office. If Harry was right, this guy had a soft spot for Black descendants that might work in Ron’s favor. And, if Harry’s randy ramblings after the Gala were any indication, he might be able to strike a deal with this Goblin just by describing Harry’s cock in great detail, too.

Low grumbling came from the other side of the door, and the knob turned slowly. Ron nudged it open, and his first impression of Odbert’s office was _How does a Goblin reach books on shelves that high?_ Odbert’s long, gnarled fingers snapped loudly, and books drifted from his desk up to the shelves, sorting themselves neatly. The door slammed shut behind Ron, and he shrieked a tiny, very manly shriek.

“Out with it, you jumpy, freckled fuck,” he groused, eyes not leaving the ledger under his hands. “We’re not open yet.”

“Bloody fine welcome,” Ron retorted as he felt the outside of his bag for leaks. “No wonder the Ministry’s not sending you flowers and chocolates.”

Odbert shot him a challenging glance over his reading glasses, but Ron was eyeing the bookshelves. “I assume you’re here to beg for a loan, _Weasley_. Fat lot the rags in your vaults would fetch on Horizont.”

Ron huffed and set his bag down on a chair. The eggs clunked heavily inside, and Odbert’s ear twitched. “I’d sell my left nut before I’d owe you lot a knut.”

Odbert softly shut the ledger and Ron felt the Goblin assessing him, then his bag. Bloody impolite, Ron thought. But he knew well enough not to look down at a Goblin. Rude little bastards. Nothing compared to growing up the youngest of six brothers, though.

“A Weasley with leverage would certainly be new.” Odbert slid out of his low chair and wandered closer to Ron’s bag, subtly scenting the air as he moved closer. “You reek of the little Blackblood, you know. Interesting choice of bedmates.”

“Is that _jealousy_ I hear from the esteemed President of a major banking institution?” Ron mocked. “I believe it is! Best not tell him any salacious details. Especially not ones involving Head Aurors.”

“Careful. Blackblood has been exceptionally generous, unlike certain prominent, but impoverished, families who keep a Goblin-made tiara in their vault.” Odbert stood toe-to-toe with Ron, but had eyes for the rucksack.

“Perhaps I’ve come bearing treasures, too, my pointy-toothed friend.” Ron pretended to inspect his nails, noticed a fair amount of dried Runespoor blood stuck to his cuticles, and picked at it while he rambled. “Now, I know any decent wizard wouldn’t try to just _give_ something to a Goblin. No… I may have been raised _impoverished_ , as you put it, but still civilized.”

Odbert grunted his agreement, and Ron continued. “See, I’ve a sudden itch for some musical instruments, right? Big ones. And the thought occurred to me, that you’ve probably got a Lost and Found of some kind around here. A secret little hidey hole.” Ron reached down and unzipped the top of the bag. “And it would be a crying shame if a bloke went in there and _found_ some things he felt he was missing.”

“Hmm… It would be a shame, but I would think that ragamuffin would need to have something of value.”

“Well, all I’ve got are three whole Runespoor eggs,” Ron paused to enjoy Odbert’s gasp, “and one more broken shell. Bloody soft silver, these eggs. Also got a bunch of Runespoor steaks wrapped up in there if that’s something Goblins like.”

Ron hefted one of the eggs out and held it in his open palm. Long, cold fingers wrapped slowly around it in hushed awe.

“Now, as I understand it, Runespoor silver is so damned pure that _only_ Goblins can work with it.”

“It’s…” Odbert’s voice faltered, and Ron suspected the man was crying. “It’s so pure we’ve fought territorial wars over single Runespoor nesting sites.”

“Ah, then I suppose four of them might be worth…”

“Anything, little trickster. Anything.” Odbert Vanished the entire bag with a single touch, and started toward the door. Ron watched his back, a long-fingered hand coming up to wipe his eyes. “We will owe your house an honor debt for generations. What are a few instruments?”

Ron followed him out, but wondered which house the Goblin meant.

—————————————

Aurors do not cry themselves to sleep in another man’s bed. They genuinely do not. They stay _awake_ after they’ve cried themselves out, and analyze small, niggling things until they’ve worked themselves into a right good state of self-rejection.

And Harry Potter had come to the conclusion that Draco not only still loved his ex-fiance, but also fantasized about him in immense and vivid detail. While wearing Harry’s clothes, which was baffling.

And thus, upon three hours of scowling meditation, Head Auror Potter had made a deduction. Draco Malfoy’s interrupted response to his inquiry about dating other men, his _I don’t-_ , was definitely meant to be an _I don’t care._

But, Harry realized with painful clarity, _he_ cared.

—————————————

“Say it again?” Harry asked softly. He’d looked on edge all morning. All his movements were rushed, his responses either brash or hesitant.

Draco quickly swallowed the last bite of his muffin. “I love you.”

Harry picked at the crumbs stuck to his wrapper and avoided looking at him. It was unlike him to only ask once, Draco thought. Also unlike him to not at least smile a tiny bit upon hearing the words. It felt like Harry was trying to taste a lie in his words.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asked tentatively. 

Harry’s mug landed on the table with a touch too much force. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” Draco scoffed and broke off a corner of his muffin. “It’s not every day I take a man to my bed for the first time, snog him till he falls apart, then he wakes up hating me. Spite for breakfast. Unusual menu item.”

The Sports section of the Prophet on the table caught his eye, and he grabbed it.  
_BATS AND FALCONS IN BIDDING WAR_

Harry glared at him, but he snapped the paper open in mild defiance. It wasn't hiding if there was reading to be done.

“Huh,” Draco huffed. “Magnus might be moving just down the road.”

The article had a small picture of the Falmouth Stadium, and damned if it wasn’t the one he’d seen in the Hall of Prophecy. So, one of the twins was going to be having private lessons with their uncle on a league Quidditch pitch. Fucking Quidditch.

The salary amounts the article threw around were jaw-dropping. It didn’t look like loyalty to Magnus’ newly-created league was going to keep him in Ballycastle much longer.

“Fool or folly to give a tree wizard a potted plant for housewarming?” he muttered to himself.

Harry’s continued silence made his chest flutter nervously. Isn’t that just the way it goes, though, Draco thought. Every joy burned to a crisp as soon as it’s tasted. Someday, that would be how he knew he was dead. If he woke up happy on three consecutive mornings, he couldn’t possibly be living the life of Draco Malfoy anymore.

“Stop glaring at me through the newspaper,” Draco chided, and folded the paper away.

Glistening green eyes met his gaze, heart-broken. Harry’s hands tented over his nose and mouth, hiding the rest of his expression.

“ _Mon coeur_ , what’s wrong?” he whispered. The anxious flutter in his chest grew to a steady roil.

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath and dropped his hands. “I heard you last night. When you said you loved him. While you came.”

Draco opened his mouth, but Harry spoke over him in an anxious rush.

“And you told me before that you still loved him, and so I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, but then you didn’t answer me when I asked if we were dating other people,” he hitched another breath and continued, “so I know we’re… whatever we are. And I guess it makes me a hypocrite, with Hermione, but I just-”

“ _Mon-_ “

“But you had my grey jumper and my sweatshirt and I just- I just thought…” 

Harry stopped for another hitching breath, and the realization hit Draco. He hadn’t been overheard, he’d been _observed_. At length. Like an animal in captivity. Goosebumps bristled along his arms at the thought.

“Not many people can hear colors of clothing.” Draco bit the words off, fingers gripping the edge of the table. Harry was silent, and it only stoked Draco’s indignation. “Harry, I didn’t mind when you involved Pansy and Hermione without consulting me. I didn’t even mind when you ham-fistedly promised yourself and Hermione into my bed. I could have declined.”

The bumbling idiot sniffled and looked up at him, eyes wide.

Molten anger coursed through Draco, and his face fell into a carefully neutral mask. How _dare_ he? _How fucking dare he_ orchestrate this whole house arrest situation, watch Draco from the shadows in the middle of the night, and then crucify himself on his own misinterpretations?

Draco slowly released his grip on the table. “But I _do_ mind you skulking around uninvited, stabbing yourself in the heart, and making _me_ clean up the mess.”

Harry pinched his nose and huffed a laugh. Draco scowled at the laugh. There was nothing funny about brazenly violating someone’s privacy and weaponizing the findings. 

“ _Pottering about_ ,” Harry said with a sigh.

Draco returned the sigh and nodded. This was the epitome of _Pottering about_ , but at least the man had the decency to acknowledge it and look guilty.

“ _Mon emmerdeur_ ,” Draco said with a sigh. “Either announce your presence or fuck off next time.”

“Okay…” Harry whispered, eyes on his hands clasped on the table.

“And your French is terrible. _I like that_ and _I love you_ probably sound similar to you.” 

A blush crept across Draco’s cheeks. Mortifying, he thought. Absolutely mortifying to have to explain his own absent-minded utterances in the middle of the night.

“Oh. But you _do_. Love him.” Harry hazarded a glance up at him. “Or you said you did. Kind of sounded like you did last night, too.”

 _Here lies Draco Malfoy, in final repose, because he got his dick out in his own home._ Would it all fit on a grave marker? 

“Merlin’s tits, Harry,” Draco grumbled. “Do I have lusty, amorous feelings toward Magnus Falk? No. Fond, resentful, mixed-up, occasionally sexual feelings? Yes. Do I plan on fucking him? No.”

“Not even if he’s just over in Falmouth?”

“Not even _when_ he’s ‘Uncle Magnus’ and I yell at him for trying to pass toddler-size Falmouth tracksuits off as acceptable Yule gifts.” 

Draco stood and swept muffin crumbs into a tidy pile on the table, then slid them into his waiting hand. He frowned and chastised himself. This wasn’t really about Magnus.

It had been cowardly of him to not answer Harry in front of Granger. The poor bastard had apparently worried about him shagging other men for a solid day. And all night, by the look of it.

“And as to your other concern, no. I don’t plan on pursuing any other men.” He took a fortifying breath. “If you want to date other men, we can discuss it.”

Harry sighed so deeply, Draco felt a sympathetic dizziness. Harry pushed his chair away from the table to face the sink as Draco dusted the crumbs into it. 

“I am _so_ tired of dating,” Harry gushed. “I hate it so much.”

“Well, let me know otherwise.” He filled a glass with water and sauntered toward Harry in his chair. “The only thing I well and truly abhor is sneaking. Understood?”

Harry nodded somberly, and Draco sighed. It wasn’t the conversation he’d planned on having, but it was the one they’d ended up with.

Draco set the glass on the table and watched Harry’s gaze flit up and down his pajama-clad form. Standing knee to knee, he looked down into repentant green eyes, sentiment stirring. Gods, this man and his blundering. Why did things end up _better_ after he charged in and wrecked them?

Without warning, Draco plopped himself on Harry’s lap and smirked. His arms rested on Harry’s shoulders as he scooted closer. “I’m keeping that sweatshirt. You can argue if you want, but one of us has vastly more experience with reparation payments than the other.”

“That sounds fair.” Harry swallowed thickly and wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist. “I- I kind of liked you in it.”

Draco bent down and grazed his lips along Harry’s chin, down his jaw to his ear. “I think you’d like it better with satin-covered cock.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

———————————

Harry wiped his clammy palms against the sheets to no avail. He was just going to have to figure out what to do with sweaty hands and satin. At least his Chudley Cannons sweatshirt was familiar. Familiar, but he wasn’t exactly accustomed to someone _else_ wearing it.

It should have looked obscene, he thought. A floral skirt draped lightly over a hard cock, paired with a ragged sweatshirt. But on Draco, it was the picture of _Come and get it_ elegance. All texture and sensuality. The bizarre and new with the tried and true. 

Draco lay on his back and snapped the skirt wide, draping it over himself in invitation. It was an enormous piece of fabric, Harry thought. Practically a tablecloth. Harry inhaled deeply and swallowed a sudden rush of saliva.

“I should put clothes on,” Harry muttered. Merlin, this was a bad idea. He was already so hard he could barely think.

“Someone’s dithering again,” Draco said with a lazy grin and wiggle of his hips. He pulled the collar of the sweatshirt up over his nose and took a deep breath. “You can go first, if you’d rather.” 

Grey eyes watched him patiently, but fluttered shut as he drew another breath through the shirt. Nobody he’d ever slept with before had thought he smelled particularly good. Let alone so good they stole his clothes.

“ _Mon coeur_ , are you worried about the Ministry or the ministrations?”

An embarrassed flush burned across Harry’s cheeks at the directness. Sure, he was worried they’d slip up and make skin contact where they shouldn’t, but it was just so damn much fabric that it wasn’t likely. He sighed and silently berated himself. It was definitely a confidence thing.

“I’ve never touched another man.”

Draco’s face was still half-hidden in the sweatshirt, and Harry grinned. He didn’t look like he was going to willingly breathe air that wasn’t Potter-scented for a while.

“I would ask if you still want to, but, ah…” Draco gestured vaguely to Harry’s erection, then looked up to meet his gaze. He popped his chin out of the shirt. “And I think you’re going to be very disappointed in my stamina.”

Harry smirked and snuggled up to Draco’s side, resisting the urge to rut against the other man’s satin-covered hip. Draco grabbed his fingers and brought them up to his lips for a cordial kiss before guiding their hands down to his waiting length.

Draco bit his lip in anticipation as he curled Harry’s fingers around the base of his cock and squeezed. Harry’s breath shuddered out, and Draco relaxed, threading his fingers together behind his head.

His fingers skimmed up Draco’s length, making him whimper as Harry rubbed his tip between fingers. Harry propped himself up on an elbow and let his cock rub against the warm satin while he watched Draco’s reactions.

It was a little disorienting, he thought, to grip and stroke, but not feel it from the other side. Was he holding it too tightly? Not tight enough? He bunched up some of the satin and stroked it in his fist around the head of Draco’s cock, and the man absolutely _writhed_. His movements pressed him against Harry’s groin, and he groaned and thrust in response.

“Fuck, _mon coeur_ ,” Draco whispered. “More.”

Harry tightened his fist and stroked a little faster. A deep moan vibrated Draco’s chest as his back arched. His hips snapped and he let out a whimpered shout and came.

The satin under Harry’s fingers slowly soaked through with his come. He slid it against Draco’s cock experimentally. It was incredibly slick, and still warm. Draco’s hips jerked and he snorted out a short laugh. 

“Stop,” he barked, and batted Harry’s hand away. “Gods, stop. Fuck.” He relaxed into the bed with a lazy grin and licked his lips. “That was embarrassingly short-lived.”

“I’m going to take it as a compliment,” Harry said. 

He threw an arm across Draco’s chest and rested his head on his shoulder. On his own sweatshirt, which was getting less weird. His cock pressed against the warm satin on Draco’s hip, and he ground against him with a soft moan.

“Rutting pig, I swear,” Draco chided. “I want to feel you come in my hands, not all over my bed. Lay back.”

Harry thought about making a jibe about humping pillows, but decided it was a low blow. He did as told, mimicking Draco’s position. Putting his hands behind his head seemed like an even better idea as Draco slid out from under the satin to reveal a still-swollen cock and ample amount of come for the taking.

Grey eyes shot him an inquisitive look, and he realized he was making an eager soft humming sound. “You have no clue how irresistible your greed is, _mon coeur_.”

Draco shimmied into a pair of tight boxer briefs, and Harry frowned. “Tsk tsk. The day is young.” He spent a while surveying Harry, so idle stroking felt like an appropriate response. “How reliably can you keep your hands behind you?”

Harry shrugged. “No promises if you take those pants back off.”

“I would like to help myself to your naked body,” Draco hummed in thought, “without suddenly finding myself jerking off in the Azkaban holding cells.”

“I could sit on my hands, maybe?”

Grey eyes drifted to the floor next to the bed. “How do you feel about being restrained?”

“Uhm…” Harry let his voice trail off. He shook his head noncommittally. “I guess I haven’t thought about it,” Harry Potter lied like a lying liar.

He had suspected his fascination with restraints and cuffs at work was more than professional interest for years. Having Hermione pin his hands under her knees, grab him by the hair and ride him senseless yesterday had driven the message _right_ home.

Draco pulled a wooden crate out from under the bed and dug around in it. “Dray, you’d better not make any hog-tying jokes.”

Wide grey eyes drifted up to him, and Draco nodded. Odd reaction, Harry thought.

“And I’m kind of surprised you’d have any,” Harry added, eager to chase that spooked look from him. Draco Malfoy had plenty of reasons to dislike confinement.

“Pansy doesn’t believe in gifts that can be opened in mixed company,” he said with a sentimental glimmer in his eye. “I have some that are more of a reminder than a restraint. Just snaps.” Draco’s eyebrows lifted in offering. “You _can_ take them off, but you _shouldn’t_ take them off.”

He tossed a pair of black fabric cuffs on the bed, and Harry’s cock twitched. _Fuck._

The box slid back under the bed, and Draco crawled toward him, snatching the cuffs up. After an entirely too-thorough demonstration that bordered on condescension, Harry’s wrists were firmly, but comfortably, secured under his back as he lay propped up in a nest of pillows. 

“If you put an apple in my mouth, I’ll just eat it, you know.” Draco made a clipped gesture with his hand, shushing Harry, but not before he caught the other man’s grin.

His wrists tugged against the cuffs behind his back as the weight of his situation sank into him. He was bound, displayed on a mound of pillows, adorned in silken raiment, and between his feet knelt his lover. A sacrifice to the altar of themselves alone. 

Tears welled in Harry’s eyes at the amount of patience Draco had shown him. For every step, two missteps and a recovery. For every admission an omission and apology. Waltzing downhill without falling.

He sniffed, hoping Draco didn’t notice, but the humility was overwhelming. He looked up to find him bowed, blonde hair falling to obscure his face. His palms rested placidly on his thighs, simply waiting.

A tear tracked down Harry’s cheek, and he leaned to wipe it on a pillow, but Draco just sat, breathing slowly.

“Say it again?”

Glassy grey eyes drifted up to his with a soft, sad smile. “I love you.”

Harry swallowed thickly and didn’t bother to hide a second tear escaping the corner of his eye. “Are you alright?” Harry croaked.

“Yeah…” Draco whispered. “I just realized this is likely the last time I’ll touch someone for the first time. It’s just… a lot. It’s fine.” He took a deep breath and cleared his throat as his hands drifted to Harry’s ankles.

“We don’t have to, Dray.”

He got that far-away look again, and Harry wanted to hug him till he broke down and cried, then put him back together. “No, _mon coeur_ , I want to. It’s just bittersweet. Forest fires make beautiful sunsets.”

Harry slid his thumbs under the snaps, prepared to do some serious hugging if he’d said anything else cryptic. Draco heaved a deep sigh and relaxed, with Harry following suit. Draco’s hands rubbed up and down Harry’s shins slowly, approaching the satin at his knees.

Of their own accord, Harry’s shoulders shimmied in anticipation, and Draco looked up to find him biting his lip expectantly. His lips spread in a wide grin, which confused Harry a bit, but he was just glad Draco was happy.

“Anywhere you _don’t_ want to be touched, _mon cochon_?”

Goosebumps skimmed up Harry’s arms at the implication. “No.” He gulped. “Not really.” Draco nodded and shuffled forward, knees between Harry’s. He wasn’t hard anymore, and Harry felt oddly selfish with his unapologetic erection tenting the satin over him. 

“Oh!” Harry barked. “My scar. Like, I don’t care you touch it, but not like… sexually. A couple women _licked_ it.” He shuddered at the memory.

Draco’s eyebrows rose and he hummed in agreement. “Don’t lick my Mark. That’s happened several times.”

“People are weird,” Harry huffed. 

Draco nodded and pressed the heels of his hands into the muscles just above Harry’s kneecaps. A surprised grunt followed by a low groan escaped Harry as the muscles twitched and relaxed as his palms slid higher. It was a painful kind of good, but damned if it didn’t hurt. And damned if it didn’t make his cock twitch, too. “Fuck…” he hissed.

It was easy to forget Draco was a Healer, Harry thought, until he went and did something small and electrifying like that. Humbling, to realize your body was little more than someone else’s instrument.

Warm hands skimmed up to the crests of his pelvis, firm fingertips prodding and assessing more than teasing or enticing. The satin tugged maddeningly against the leaking tip of his cock with every small movement.

“Please?” Harry whispered. Draco studied him for several long moments and nodded.

Hands slid the satin together to bunch around his cock. With another glance up to his eyes, Draco smiled softly. 

Long fingers wrapped easily around him, and he gasped. How the hell did Draco’s hand fit his cock better than his own? The other man grinned and gripped him tight, earning a low moan. Gods, his hands were fucking _strong_.

Satin skimmed up his length inside the tight grip, and Harry’s back arched against the bed. More slick fabric bunched between his thighs, and he felt gentle pressure cup him. The second hand slid lower, and he groaned as soft fingertips pressed circles against him as the other hand stroked.

His breaths came in pants that bordered on wordless begging. 

“Shh…” Draco whispered. “You waited long enough, _mon cochon_. Go ahead.”

His thumb made a pass over the tip with every stroke, and tension pooled too quickly in Harry’s hips. “Fuck… fuck… fuck…” he chanted with every pass.

Harry watched blond hair skim forward as Draco leaned down and gently kissed the satin over the tip of his cock. “Come for me, _mon coeur_ ,” he whispered, grazing his lips back and forth. 

His teeth pressed through the fabric, and the tension in Harry broke. He throbbed against the tight grip, bucked, and came with a guttural groan and gasping breaths. Draco’s hands made a few extra strokes before he released Harry’s sensitive cock. 

His knees slid up to straddle Harry’s, and he leaned down for a long, slow kiss. He pulled back, grey eyes misty. Harry released his wrists and ran fingers through Draco’s hair.

“I love you,” Draco said with a resolute smile, and rolled off to snuggle up against Harry’s side.

At a loss for words, Harry wrapped an arm around his back and squeezed him tight.

———————————

Ron let out a low whistle as the lights rose in the cavern. Not a cavernous room. A literal cavern.

“Welcome to the Gringotts Squashed and Ground,” Burgock croaked. He’d had what sounded like a bit of an emotional moment with Odbert on the way down, and Ron had astutely ignored it.

“Help yourself, little trickster,” Odbert said. “Most of this has been sitting here since the seventeenth century, when it was fashionable for young heirs to partake in death-defying quests.”

Ron opened his mouth and closed it. This was the vault of all vaults. Every armoire, and there were many, was stuffed to spilling with clothing. Every desk overflowed with ornate ink pots and rare quills. Every square foot of the Quidditch field-sized room was covered in layers of thick rugs.

He took a few tentative strides into the room and inspected a vanity. Delicately-carved ebony topped by… a pane of clear glass? Glancing around, he noticed that every mirror was completely transparent.

“You strip the silver off the mirrors?”

“Everything in the room has been stripped of gold, silver, and jewels,” Burgock said.

“And I can just… shrink things down and stuff my pockets?” Ron asked incredulously. The woodwork and textiles in the room were beyond priceless. Missing knobs and buttons, he noticed, but valuable, nonetheless.

“We’ve been discussing lighting this room on fire, little trickster,” Odbert replied dryly. “That’s how little value it holds to Goblins. In fact, you can help yourself whenever you like. The ward will admit you. We have better things to do.”

Ron stood, slack-jawed. “I-” He hesitated, catching himself nearly committing the unforgivable act of thanking a Goblin. “I do drive a hard bargain, don’t I?”

“If you say so,” Burgock grumbled, turning back toward the door. “The map is on the wall here. You can see yourself out. Anything else?”

“Uh… Yeah, actually.” Ron turned and stroked his beard in consideration. “Since we’re doing a little backroom dealing… Do you know any morally-dubious but reliable Greek wizards? Maybe ones that work for thrills more than money?”

Ron let his gaze drift to the map above the Goblins while they whispered to each other. It was well-organized. Clothing and wardrobes, desks and tables, kitchen, textiles, and Merlin be damned if there wasn’t a small section in the back marked “Instruments, Dark and Musical”.

“…but I don’t think I’d call them reliable…”

“…reliable enough for small tasks. I wouldn’t ask them to keep a plant alive.”

“They’re going to be the Praeter’s downfall.”

“So long as the Aerarium and Rome’s treasury don’t fall, do we care?”

Odbert chuckled, and they both cleared their throats. “We know two, little trickster.”

“Your Auror knows them best, but if you want them for more… clandestine deeds, it would be best go go through the little Blackblood.”

“Oh,” Ron huffed. “Alright.” Ron nodded. Hell, maybe he already knew them, too.

“Very good,” Burgock said primly. “Tell him to put you in touch with Praeter Onasis’ twins.”

——————————

“What if…” Harry paused for a shuddering breath. His fingers carded through the mess of blond hair spread across his chest. “What if I don’t ever say it? Or just can’t?”

Draco shrugged noncommittally and skimmed his lips over Harry’s skin. He would prefer it, maybe. Given that he had trouble hearing without the added “but” after the phrase.

_Darling, he loves you, but you know better than to provoke him._  
_I love you, but do you have to be so obvious about it all?_  
_I love you, but not dressed like that._  
_I love you, but quiet down._  
_I love you, but…_  
_I love you, but…_  
_But… but… but…_

The conditions of conditional love; candy coating on a poisoned apple. Eventually, one grows to fear sweetness.

He dipped his nose inside the sweatshirt and drew a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut.

“I suppose, if you want me to hear it, you can just ask me to say it for you.” Draco’s soft smile felt self-pitying even as the words left him.

Harry grinned sheepishly. “Say it again, then?”

Draco popped his chin out of the sweatshirt, grey eyes twinkling. “I love you.”

———————————

His mobile buzzed against the table, and Harry felt Draco’s glare all the way down to his soul. Two ward runs cancelled due to rain was apparently enough to make him superbly grouchy. Sex escapades aside. Good to know, Harry figured.

“Yeah, this is Potter.”

_”Hey, Harry. It’s Janice. Calling in report.”_

Harry racked his memory to put a face to the young Auror’s name and voice, but only came up with the face of the woman he’d last gone on a date with. He rolled his eyes at himself. This was her. Duh, Potter, he thought. Why had he been so sure her name started with an “A”?

“Yeah. Janice. You’re a couple hours early for shift-”

_”We found her. In the rose garden. North point of the fountain."_

“Holy shit.” He sat bolt upright and funneled what would have been a gasp in through his nose. Draco stood next to the sink chopping an obscenely-large pile of onions, but he tilted an ear almost imperceptibly toward Harry.

_”Yeah. Wrapped up in the blanket and everything. But then we kind of… kept casting the Mobilcorpus, and just aaaaaaccidentally found several adult bodies out near the east treeline.”_

“Holy shit.” Draco watched him openly, chef’s knife hovering mid-air. Harry tried to keep his face neutral, but gave up on being able to lower his eyebrows.

 _”Harry, are you not somewhere you can talk about the case? Do you want to call me back later?”_

Harry eyed the drizzle outside the window and frowned. He’d much rather take this report out of Draco’s earshot, but that wasn’t plausible.

“No, it’s fine, Janice. Bring me copies via Floo and have the originals locked in my office.”

_”Sure, Harry. Should reach you tonight. What should we do with the bodies?”_

Harry released a deep sigh and looked up to find Draco watching him intently. He nodded, but Draco didn’t move. His mobile picked up his voice, but he spoke to Draco.

“Adults to the Ministry morgue, and tell them to inter the baby in the Black mausoleum.”

Draco’s lips parted, eyes wide, and he set the knife down with a shaky hand.

“And have them call or owl me about preparations, not Narcissa or Lucius.”

_”Got it. Adams’ll be Flooing to your house in a minute or-“_

“Oh! Wheal Elvan, not my flat.”

_”Yeah, I know. Gotta run. I’m off at nineteen-hundred, and Jacobsen is supervising night shift._

“Okay, thanks. Janice.”

—————————————————

Draco swallowed past a lump in his throat as his fingers carefully laid the knife on the cutting board. His best knife. Razor-sharp, but unbalanced and prone to falling off edges. Apropos.

Harry was still talking, but the words were lost behind the thud of his pulse in his ears. _They found her._ The crashing reality made his knees weak, and he shakily made his way to the couch.

Liore was real. She wasn’t one of Narcissa’s delusions or Lucius’ lies. She’d been real. Was real. 

She was going to have an obituary and a grave marker and a file at the Ministry and exist where the whole world would know. Anyone would be able to see that she’d been born, died, and the whole tragedy of her short little life.

 _A wound isn’t clean till it’s bleeding, right?_ Harry’s words echoed back to him as he curled up in his corner of the sofa. Had Harry considered whose blood he’d end up drawing?

The Floo in front of him belched green flames and soot, and he braced himself for red robes and bureaucracy. Instead, red hair and a drab olive jacket over faded denim stepped out. Ron’s blue eyes assessed him and lost their mischievous gleam.

“Hey…” Ron drawled tentatively as he sat on the hearth and removed his shoes.

“Hi,” Draco whispered. “Pockets full of furniture again?”

“Uh huh,” Ron grunted, glancing over to Harry, who was wrapping up his call. “What happened?”

Draco schooled his face blank and watched the fireplace. An Auror would be tumbling out any second.

“They found Liore,” Draco murmured, biting a fingernail. The _What If_ train was starting, boilers heating and steam belching. All aboard! Next stop, Maelstrom.

What if they couldn’t pin this on Lucius? What if all this had accomplished was stirring Narcissa up before releasing her? What if she took it out on him next week? What if she came for him? 

“Want me to get Mum?” Ron offered.

Draco shrugged noncommittally, and Ron watched him a moment before chucking a handful of Floo powder and sticking his head through.

What if he took Ron up on his unregistered Floo offer? What if he ran? What if he hid at the Asklepion? Or Delphi? What if he never came back?

“She’ll be here in a sec. I’ve got something for you I’m gonna set up in the room off the kitchen. Might keep you busy, if that sounds good.”

Draco nodded absently, not really seeing the dark Floo in front of him. He pulled the collar of the sweatshirt up over his nose and breathed deeply.

What if he just hid again? What if he slipped into his feathers, flew away, built a nest, and raised some eaglets? _Mes oisillons_. 

He sighed. There was no leaving. Prophecies were usually vague, but in none of his was he living anywhere but Wheal Elvan. His bunker, then. Not so different from a mineshaft.

Green flames burbled up, and a perfectly-coiffed head of brown hair stuck itself through, followed by shoulders and a handful of file folders. Draco blinked at the man slowly as he set the papers down on the hearth and shot a pointed finger at Harry in salute.

“Thanks, Adams,” Harry grumbled, picking up the pile as the man disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived. “Draco, what do you want to know?” he asked softly.

Draco shrugged. “Under the silver rose bush?” Harry nodded, looking through the files. “She used to sit there and cry a lot.” He knew his voice sounded numb, but didn’t feel like wasting effort on a convincing performance. 

He’d picked those roses. Inhaled their scent and let the particles stick in his airways till they were part of him. Like Harry’s scent in this shirt.

She’d been under the roots the whole time, part of the rosebush. In the flowers, in their scent, in him, then. An irrational urge to Scourgify his sinuses hit him, and he shook his head.

The Floo rumbled again, and he wondered why a bunker would have such an obvious entry point. Narcissa could pop right in. She would expect tea.

“ _Mon coeur_ , will you put the kettle on?” he whispered inside the yellow sweatshirt.

The sofa sagged next to him, and small, firm hands grabbed his shoulders, but it felt distant. Like his shoulders were only vaguely connected to the rest of him, wherever the rest of him was.

His cheek landed on a soft lap that smelled like cinnamon, cloves, and something bitter that clung to the back of his tongue. He snuffled into the apron under him, eager for the distraction.

Cold, nimble fingers scratched up the nape of his neck while he analyzed the scent. Something familiar that reminded him of potions and geriatric patients and the Durmstrang Healer rooms. _Foxglove._

He rolled over and looked up at Molly Weasley. Patient eyes adorned with laugh lines softened as he watched them. “Hi,” he whispered. “They found her.”

“Good,” she said firmly. “I told Harry to have them dig the bush up and bring it here.”

“Oh!” he sighed, surprised. “It’s a good time to transplant roses.”

“It is. I think roses will do quite well in your front garden. Do you want to know about her, love?”

“Okay,” Draco murmured, and rolled onto his side, face buried against Molly as her hands ran through his hair.

“Liore Pavo Black was born in the middle of the night on May seventeenth, under a full moon in the East wing of Malfoy Manor…”

Molly continued, repeating details of the story as the man in her lap muffled his sobs in her apron and fell asleep.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

_”The Eagle and the Arrow”_

Carbon hardens iron into steel.  
Just true.  
What do ashes and irony yield?

Branches, stones; they hone talons.  
Beaks, too.  
My self-fletched arrows… undone.

_Birthed_ and lain in beds of weeds,  
Me, too.  
Put to rest for others’ deeds.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  


Perfectly-Coiffed

Everything I want, and nothing that I need.  
You want something different? Darling, that’s just _greed_.

To live and die as someone’s vault, it makes a boy unseen.

Anything I want, and anyone would heed.  
What if I ask for nothing, then would I be freed?

DLM 1998 Wiltshire  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	32. Tonality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Hermione don't want to grow up and live at the Burrow, but they'll sure spend a morning fucking there.  
> Draco and Harry struggle with work-life-dick balance.  
> Everybody finds out about Draco and Luna.  
> Holy shit, one of the kids in a dream has a NAME. Weird.  
> Draco and Hermione bond over stringed instruments. Literally.  
> Ron gets rid of his Griffin buddy.  
> Draco really likes making food and watching Harry eat it.  
> Lucius Malfoy is just universally unpopular.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Friendly Fire

Words are cheap and skin grows back.  
Bones mend quick from axes thrown.  
For deft of knife, clean flesh regrown.  
Battles _do_ let manners slack.

Betrayal’s honest, not payback.  
So _revenge_ , I feel’s, the deeper wound.  
A harsher blow, for finer-tuned.  
Fidelity, in held attack.

DLM 2004 Devon  
********************************  
My Quatrain and Stanzas  
  
Big Dipper, Ladle, God’s Gourd,  
Four make the basin, and then three more  
Heavenly shape I’ve most-adored.  
  
Bowl held steady, bottom right  
Handle reaching into night  
Melded, yet, by couplings tight  
  
Four in the bed, but three loves more  
Fond, familial rapport.  
Earthly shapes I’ve most-adored.  
  
DLM 2008 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

Ron’s morning had already gone tits-up by tea, so he went home to dump furniture in the two new houses at the Burrow. They were nothing short of magnificent, and everyone had cared to notice this time around.

Percy and Audrey were officially moving into theirs next week. Fleur had fallen in love with the chalet-style home he’d originally been building for himself, and Bill had conceded it would be nice to live at the Burrow. Ron had surreptitiously added four more bedrooms to the back of the house and a second bathroom.

He pulled a shrunken dining table and chairs out of his bag and set them on the chalet floor, popping them back to full-size. The open floorplan and big hearth reminded him of Wheal Elvan, but… empty. Fleur and Bill would enjoy it far more than he ever would have.

A pop of Apparition shook the plate glass windows of the living room slightly, and he saw his Harpy in his Mum’s garden. He grinned and took the last of the items out of his bag and let them expand on the table. Pots, pans, lanterns, bedding, rugs, all of it dusty and oddly perfect.

Hermione surveyed the drooping October foliage around her with an adorable frown, and Ron was content to watch her for a bit. She seemed to be looking for something in particular. Probably brewing potions in her Muggle kitchen. She spotted something in the next section over and perked up.

Rather than take the path out of the medicinal area, she backed up and attempted a running leap over the flowers and… failed miserably. Ron stifled a laugh as she landed with one leg in a rose bush. She kicked at it to free her trousers, then hauled off and kicked the base of it once more for good measure before looking around to get her bearings.

There weren’t any potions ingredients in that section of the garden, so she must be working on a bouquet. He grinned and pulled a wooden chair up to the window to watch. Damned nice view, these windows. Worth the trouble.

He settled his elbows on his knees, chin in his hands as she went bush to bush, examining the closed buds. An early frost had knocked the petals off most of the open blooms the night before, so she’d be lucky to find anything worth picking. As if to spite him, she flicked her wand to cut off a large bud, and swirled it above the tight curl of petals.

He gasped, eyes wide, as a single red rose unfurled in her hand. She smiled, tucked it carefully into her jacket against her chest, and made for the back door of the Burrow.

His fingers dug into his beard, caught somewhere between combing and nervous tugging. He’d been mustering up the courage to tell her he loved her for at least a week, and that conniving Harpy of his was going to beat him to it. Well, that wouldn’t do. Not at all.

In a sudden, flailing burst of motion, he hopped up and trotted out the door.

“Hermione Jean Granger!” he hollered across the garden.

She looked up to the Burrow, then side to side before turning to watch him trot around the edge. “Hey! I thought you’d be at the store, but I was going to-

“I love you, ‘Mione,” he panted as he came to a stop. “I really, really love you. A lot.”

Her lips spread in a wide, toothy grin as she leaned forward and crushed herself against him. “I love you, too, Ron.” Her face nuzzled into his jacket, and he buried his nose in her hair.

She gasped and pulled back in horror. “ _Dammit!_ ” Confused, he watched her gingerly slip her fingers in her jacket, only to come out with a mess of red petals. “Please tell me there’s no secret meaning to this?”

“I’m going to choose to interpret it as ‘I love you to bits’, I think.”

She huffed a laugh and flicked the petals at him. “Works for me. I love you to bits, Ronald Weasley.”

“And I think I’d like to make love to _your_ bits.”

Ron sighed and wrapped his arms around her. She allowed him precisely three moments of a warm, sentimental hug before sliding ice-cold fingers down the back of his pants. He yelped and held her out at arm's length by her shoulders.

“There's a nice, warm bed just sitting inside that house that’s technically still mine, you know.”

“You don’t say…”

Not the conversation he’d planned, he thought. Nothing with her ever went as planned. It was always better.

——————————————

Draco’s forehead rolled back and forth against the glass. The rain would never end. It never did. Well, it did. But not till April. _April_. There would be twins around April. By the next time Cornwall saw sunshine, he could be a _father_.

No. Too dramatic. There would be some sunny days before then. Good timing, babies in spring. Much better than bringing them home to watch the rain.

He sighed, held his breath to feel his heart rate speed, and exhaled for the slow, thudding beats that followed. Four days without a single ward run. A week without a flight. Without his Auror in attendance, he’d have gladly run in the rain, but Aurors were susceptible to fogged glasses and general irritability.

Flightless, housebound, and bored, bored, bored. Another deep sigh, another heart rate spike and drop, breath held at the bottom for the stillness.

“If you’re going to stand at the window and sigh dramatically at the rain, could you do it in the bedroom?”

Draco turned to lean his back against the cold glass, a touch surprised it wasn’t wet. Harry was turning into a hung Hermione, what with his piles of files and constantly-buzzing mobile. Big, bumbling, eminently fuckable swot.

He’d instituted a _“No Shenanigans Between Eight and Five Rule”_ that was a personal insult. But apparently, Draco’s hands were a distraction. And his mouth was unprofessional. And his hard cock grinding against Harry’s… every part of Harry… was downright unproductive. Fun, though.

“If I go into the bedroom, I’m likely to engage in _shenanigans_. In my own home. The horror.”

“So draw something, or scribble in one of your notebooks. What do you usually do on rainy days?”

“Ron’s bringing me notebooks with the groceries later,” Draco mumbled, sauntering with deliberate slowness toward the table. Walking wasn’t considered _shenanigans_. Yet. “I usually go to the library or fly out past the rain to fish. Or Luna stops by.”

He paused and schooled a grimace from his face. Discussing the nature of his relationship with Luna Lovegood sounded worse than boredom.

“Yeah,” Harry said absently, attention still on the paperwork in front of him. “What’s the deal there? I got notifications she crossed your wards several times. And that skirt’s not something Hermione or Pansy would wear.”

_Damned observant Auror._

He shut one folder and opened three identical ones, fanning them out in front of him. “So it begs the question of why Luna Lovegood visits you and leaves clothing behind.” Green eyes scrutinized him above glasses, and Draco’s fingers danced a nervous jig on the backrest of a wooden chair.

“She likes to stop by to…” Draco fanned the stolen mustard-yellow Cannons sweatshirt he’d been living in. “…play certain games. Mostly when Neve is gone.”

“What kind of games, Draco?” Harry’s tone held an edge of warning.

“One that involves Animagus forms and play hunting,” he said nervously. “And one that… doesn’t.”

“You’re fucking Luna behind Neve’s back,” Harry said, accusation thick. “I like Neve. She’s good people.”

“No, Neve knows. And they do this weird thing where they say they’ve split every time they’re apart. I can’t say I understand it.” Draco shrugged nervously.

“How long?” Harry asked, gaze steady, but less harsh. “You and her?”

“Uhm…” Draco looked at the ceiling, as if it held the answer. “A little over three years? But I don’t usually see her for months at a time.”

“Huh,” Harry huffed, amused. “You’ve been Luna Lovegood’s mistress since you got out of Azkaban?”

Draco bristled at the candor. “I’m not her ___mistress___ ,” he spat, surprised by his own vehemence.

“Do you love her, too?” He said it plainly enough, but his insecurity was thick.

He trusted Luna. She was his _biche_. His bunny. His prey and his captor. She was the first to forgive him, despite having so, so many reasons not to. She was joy and bone-deep contentment and bottomless mercy that made his whole body knuckle under, but love?

Draco bit his lip, thumbs stroking over the back of the chair. _The chair_. The one, in particular, that worked best with her rope. The one he used to avoid sitting in, as if it couldn’t be bothered for such mundane tasks.

He shrugged, eyes on his thumbs. “In a way, I suppose I do.”

He’d planned on telling Hermione first, as it somehow seemed more appropriate to tell women about other women. Honor among skirts or something. It hadn’t actually occurred to him that _Harry_ would be the jealous one. And he did look jealous. _Merde_.

What if Harry asked him to give her up? Was he willing to give up a handful of visits a year for Harry in his bed every night? Seemed an easy trade. But would he ever stop resenting Harry for forcing him to make that choice?

“Did you ever read her testimony from your parents’ first trial?”

Wide-eyed, Draco tried to glean emotion from Harry’s carefully neutral face. “No, I was living in feathers at the time.”

“Something she said has bugged for years. Something like, ‘It was safer in the dungeons. We kept our teeth.’ And that didn’t make sense till a couple weeks ago.”

Do. Not. Vomit. On the sex chair. Don’t. Cold air over exposed nerves. Slick, bloody holes against his tongue. Vodka a cauterizing burn. Not real. Not anymore. Never again.

“Thank you for that lovely flashback, _mon coeur_ ,” he whispered, eyes vacant. His tongue ran the full path of his upper jaw, and he let Harry see the gesture.

“Sorry,” Harry said with a grimace. “I just meant, I kind of get it. So, yeah. I can make myself scarce. Or try.”

“Oh,” Draco said, surprised. “Thank you. But she doesn’t perform for audiences.”

“I can’t say I’m not curious what kind of a show it would be,” Harry said with a smirk. That thrice-damned _smirk_.

“Start of the workday, and you’re already begging for distraction, hmm?” Draco grinned, fingertips tracing down the sides of the chair. He let the heat smolder through his gaze as Harry watched his hands.

“No harm in asking,” Harry said, punctuated by a thick gulp.

Draco leaned down to rest his chin on top of the chair, rocking gently side to side. “Well, last time… there was an _enormous_ , cherry-red butt plug. Almost too much, really. _Almost_.” He bit his lip in thought.

“ _Shit._ ” Harry’s breath hissed out, teeth clenched in an enticed grimace.

Draco licked his lips and stood, fingers gliding back up the polished wood. “Which is _very_ distracting against a hard, wooden seat.” His thumbs grazed over the corners of the wood. “Especially when one has been elaborately bound with silk rope.”

“ _Fucking hell, Draco._ ”

“Makes a man resort to begging in rather short order, I’m afraid.” He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval with a soft shake of his head.

“ _Fuck…_ ” A scarlet flush crept down Harry’s cheeks, and his breath came fast through parted lips.

“A begging, writhing, swearing, undone mess, really.” Draco sighed and dropped his hands to his sides. “It’s all very unbecoming.”

“ _Shenanigans_ , you.” Harry leveled an accusatory finger at him with another one of those _smirks_.

“Me?” Draco feigned offense. “I’m innocent. And so bored, I think I’ll reread _The Iliad_ in bed until Ron gets here.”

He turned and left the smoldering pile of Head Auror to his paperwork.

 _Shenanigans_ , indeed.

__———————————_ _

Ron coughed, wheezed, and coughed again, hard enough he was a bit concerned his eyes were bleeding, not leaking tears.

“Merlin’s manhood, ‘Mione!” He gasped. “You can’t _Tergeo_ dust out of fabric without somewhere to put it.”

“Well,” she huffed, “it’s been a while since I used that spell.”

“Gods, I can tell.” He ruffled his hair and stepped back out of the dust cloud. “Good thing you kept up on contraception spells, at least.”

He frowned at himself before he leaned up to look at her. Would it be the worst thing if she did forget or mis-cast one? Draco had shown him all the Seer dreams, so it felt more like an inevitability than an option, anyway. A good inevitability. Like birthday cake and sunsets.

“Uh huh,” she uttered, eyes on the open ceiling of the chalet’s master bedroom. Windows on the wall under the peak of the roof washed the room in sunlight, but kept it shielded from roving Weasleys. “Ron, this is gorgeous.”

“Thanks.” He sat on the edge of the freshly-dusted, embroidered duvet on the bed and toed his shoes off. “I hate it.”

“Yeah…” she drawled, turning to take in the exposed beams, anchored with filigreed joist supports. “It’s not very _Ron_. I can see how Fleur fell in love with it, though.”

“What do _you_ think of it, ‘Mione?” He watched her, still turning to assess the room, and took the opportunity to strip naked while she wasn’t looking. Harpies love surprises.

“Now that I’ve built two houses, I could throw a third together pretty quickly. Maybe merge the two excavation pits with a third. Fill them with water.” She leaned out into the hall to inspect the ceiling out there, too. “Maybe throw a giant, terrifying squid in there for old time’s sake. Merpeople. What do you think?”

“Huh?” She turned around, and froze mouth agape. “I…”

“Yeah?” He relaxed into the pillows and let a hand wander down to cup himself.

“I…” After a few steps toward him, she hastily removed her jacket and shirt. Awful lot of coordination for being speechless, he thought. Proper motivation, though.

“Uh huh?” He smirked, but she didn’t exactly have eyes for his face.

“I don’t…” She swallowed thickly as her thighs came to rest against the edge of the bed. “Hm.”

“Fuck, ‘Mione, I do love watching that brilliant mind of yours leak down into your knickers.” He chuckled and braced himself, but she just stood next to the bed, eyes wandering up and down him.

“I don’t want to live at the Burrow,” she whispered, face downcast. He reached out and flicked the button of her jeans open, but she didn’t perk up. “I love visiting, but…” Her eyes found his, and his heart sank at her pained expression. “Fuck, Ron, I don’t ever want to live here. This is someone else’s life.”

He tried to hide his grin. He really did, but if he’d have bit his lips any harder, she’d have had nothing to kiss. “I don’t wanna fucking live here, either.”

“ _Oh, thank Merlin!_ ” she gasped. His fingers wandered to her zipper, then to the waist of her trousers, nudging them down.

“It would be rude to give Bill and Fleur a bed we hadn’t tested, right?” he said with a wink.

She slid out of her bra, and stepped out of her jeans and knickers both. He slid over as she crawled up next to him on the high bed.

Brown eyes looked at him earnestly. “We _have_ to test it for structural integrity, Ron.”

———————————

Harry peeked around the corner of the bookcase, unsure if subtlety was the best approach when one expected to walk in on another masturbatory performance. With a relieved sigh, his shoulders dropped as he took in Draco’s sleeping form.

He crept in and curled up behind him, basking in the simple privilege of the act. He was allowed to snuggle Draco Malfoy. And so much more. The scope of it all felt impossible. He could ask for hugs, and “I love you”s, and sex, and Draco had yet to ever reply with anything but eager willingness.

Draco stirred, mumbling in his sleep, and Harry tucked an arm around his waist and settled in for a snooze.

———————————

“Hmm,” Ron said, brow furrowed. “What if _this_ corner of the bed frame gives way? We’d never forgive ourselves.” He knelt naked on a corner of the mattress, stroking his beard contemplatively. “Looks unstable.”

Hermione nodded sagely. Or as sagely as a thoroughly-fucked woman with a rats nest of hair could. “We’ll just have to test it ourselves.”

The head of the bed had proven to be secure enough to withstand her gripping it for dear life while Ron drove into her from behind. And the foot of the bed tolerated a vigorous pounding by the Wizengamot. But the corners of the bed were, as yet, unproven.

“How do you want it, Harpy?” Ron asked, hand around his already-hard cock. The man was no slouch in length, and yet unparalleled in mileage. It was enough to give a girl a ginger fetish.

A muscle twitched in her hip, and she leaned into it with a grimace. “Missionary. I’m getting a butt cramp.”

“Ho ho, being a pain in your _own_ arse for once?” he teased.

She squinted at him in challenge, but her spreading grin ruined it. He was too damned cute. Had he always been this cute? Somehow, she doubted he’d been like this with any other women, and she got the impression there’d been plenty of them.

She knee-walked to the corner of the mattress and flopped on her back dramatically. “Ron?” She asked tentatively. “Were you always this adorable?”

He nestled in on top of her, and she hugged his hips with her thighs. “I’m downright repulsive. You just love me.”

She gasped in mock horror. “I do! You’re right! What should I do about it?”

“Mmm, I don’t know,” he muttered, letting his beard graze across the top of each of her breasts. “You might just have to let me love you back.”

He slid hands behind her knees and hiked her hips up while she made eager little hums behind closed lips. “You only get one more, though, Harpy. I do have things to do today. Besides love you to bits.”

She wiggled her hips eagerly, rubbing the head of his cock against her folds. His lips found hers as he pressed himself into her with a soft moan. Fingers dug into his back, and he let her pull him down as he moved. Her lips nuzzled under his ear. “I love you so much, Ron,” she panted.

His arms wrapped under her back, a hand behind her head. “I love you, too.”

Tension spooled in her hips again, faster this time. Her breath hitched with each of his thrusts, his body rubbing against hers as he moved inside her.

Pressure built and broke, and she came in a low groan, clutching him against her as she ground her hips up to him. He shuddered and came with her, letting her body move under him for the both of them.

“To _bits_ , ‘Mione.”

__————————————_  
_

_It was a sneaky dream, as far as Seer dreams went. One moment, he was having a nonsensical dream about flying over a cove of oysters the size of dinner plates, and the next moment, he was standing next to the lake at Hogwarts._

_“But Papa, that squid was_ evil _,” the auburn-haired boy snarled back at him, angry tears in his brown eyes._

_He got the impression they’d been arguing a while. And that this was not the first time he’d been summoned to the school to mete out parental justice. “It dragged another first-year into the water! What was I supposed to do?”_

_A furious glare pinned him, antagonism writ large above freckled cheeks. His Slytherin tie was loose, and Draco had an urge to both cinch it up properly or rip it off and throw it in the lake behind him._

_“I know,_ oisillon rebel _. It used to drag animals down and drown them in front of the Slytherin common room windows.” Draco shuddered at the memory, but righted himself._

_This was worse, and fierce pride burned in his chest at his son being the one to put a stop to it. Slick tentacles glistened over the grass, a bloated body bobbing just under the surface of the water. Cursed calamari._

_To their side, thick, choking sobs drifted from Hagrid. His silver-streaked beard was damp with tears. He and a small, sodden girl in a blue-striped tie held each other, and Draco wondered who was comforting whom._

_“That squid was a menace, and it’s not my fault Hagrid loved-“ the boy spat._

_“Felix!” Draco barked, surprising himself. “You’re not being punished. You’re going to muck out Hagrid’s Hippogriff stalls for two weeks-“_

_“Papa!” Felix shouted, fuming. “Why do I have to-“_

_“You don’t have to. I am asking you to help our friend while he’s mourning,” Draco explained patiently. Gods, this boy. “You can say ‘no’. You can tell me right now ‘No, Papa, I won’t help.’ But I think you understand better than that.”_

_“Fine,” Felix groused. “I’ll do it. But I still think it’s stupid to be sad about that squid dying.”_

_“I know, love. But we still grieve when people we love are gone. Even if they’re kind of evil.”_

_“Even if they’re_ squid _?”_

 _“Even if they’re_ evil _squid,” Draco acquiesced. “I love you.”_

_He bent down and kissed the boy’s forehead, smirking when the child drew back and scrubbed the kiss away with his sleeve._

_————————————_

Ron pulled his pants up and winced. Bit sensitive, he had to admit. Bit impressed with himself, though.

“Ron, are you making trips to Wheal Elvan today?” Hermione’s head was stuck in her t-shirt, arms flailing into the sleeves.

“Yup. Two trips, maybe three.” His shirt had somehow found its way under the bed, and he shook it out before putting it on. Seemed like a good place for spiders to lurk.

“Will you tell Harry I’ll be stopping by sometime late afternoon after I finish some shopping?” She buttoned her jacket and patted her pockets, making a mental checklist.

“Yeah, sure, but I doubt they care if you catch them with their pants down,” Ron huffed a laugh at himself. “Probably appreciate it, actually.”

Her arms wrapped around his waist, worried eyes looking up at him. “Is it really okay? With you? And them. And the whole… thing?”

He shrugged, a bit baffled. “Yeah. It’s not like you’re whoring around town, ‘Mione. Bit to the contrary, really.”

“How do you mean?”

“Maybe it’s different for Muggles. I don’t know. Sturdier houses have more pillars.” He gestured vaguely to the ceiling beams. “Besides, not like you’re gonna throw me by the wayside. I’ve got something very few men have.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

_"Freckles."_

___————————————_ _ _

Draco huffed a small laugh in his sleep, and Harry hugged him tight. Waking up entangled was swiftly becoming one of Harry’s favorite things. Eventually, he’d have to finagle himself between Hermione and Draco for a night. His shoulders shimmied happily at the thought.

Under his arm, Draco stretched and rolled on to his back with a loud yawn.

“Shouldn’t you be working, Head Auror?” He smirked and let his eyes drift shut.

“I am working,” Harry retorted. “I’m… monitoring my parolee.” Harry nuzzled into Draco’s hair as the other man pulled Harry’s fingers up for a kiss.

“I suspect you spent the morning being distracted by a chair.” Draco rolled over to face him, winding an arm across his waist and up Harry’s back. “And that is dangerously close to engaging in _shenanigans_ during work hours.”

“My hours are flexible.” Harry laid a light peck on Draco’s nose, careful to avoid the temptation of his lips. “You missed Ron, but he dropped off your things, and groceries. A lot of groceries. Said he’d be back in a bit.” Harry hesitated, and Draco watched him carefully. “And we got you something.”

“Oh?”

“Well, everybody but me, I guess. But it was my idea.” Harry sat up and crossed his legs. “Ron got it from the Goblins, and then Hermione went to a Muggle music shoppe and spared _no_ expense, and-“

“Harry?” Draco sat up and mirrored his position, grey eyes gleaming. “What did you get me?” His lip caught between his teeth as a grin spread and he fought an excited bounce.

“In the room off the kitchen…” Harry trailed off, watching him expectantly.

“Yes?”

“There might be…”

‘Mm hmm?”

“A harp?”

An inarticulate, excited squawk belted from Draco as he tackled Harry, knocking him flat and hovering over him on all-fours.

“I love you.” He bent down and pecked Harry on the chin and lingered, unsure if he was allowed to proceed. “Merlin’s fucking tits, I love you, Harry.”

Harry belted a laugh and kissed Draco’s temple. He nipped at Harry’s jaw, nuzzling in. Harry’s laugh melted into an eager whimper under Draco’s lips.

His hands found the insides of Draco’s knees and nudged them apart. Draco’s hips fell against his own, and both pressed hard against each other. Harry’s breath hissed in, and Draco met his gaze, eyes wary.

“I think I’m on my lunch break,” Harry said flatly, looking at Draco. A wide, toothy grin broke across his face as he dropped to his elbows, stopping nose-to-nose. “And I believe _shenanigans_ are allowed during breaks.”

Draco hummed in approval, hips hitching and eyes growing dark. A deep groan shuddered from Harry as his cock responded to Draco’s movement.

Draco froze, eyes suddenly wide. “Strings!”

Harry chuckled and slid his hands firmly over Draco’s ass with a slow thrust up.

“Hermione said she bought two different kinds.” He tilted his chin and raised his head to nip at Draco’s lower lip. “And she’s bringing sheet music later.” His hands slid down Draco’s trousers, hands kneading his backside through the generous covering of skin-tight boxer briefs.

Draco wiggled his hips against Harry’s, a pleased, but mischievous grin spreading.

“You’re very thorough, _mon coeur_.” His hips ground against Harry’s hardening length as his breath came in small pants. “I want to come on you,” he whispered, lips against Harry’s chin. Harry’s cock throbbed in response as his breath caught.

“ _Fuck, yes_ ,” Harry blurted, already shucking off his shirt, hand headed toward his trousers. His glasses disappeared with his shirt and he groped around aimlessly until Draco plucked them from under a pillow and held them out.

Draco fumbled his cock out, fist already in motion. Harry wiggled his jeans low enough to pull his length out, but not low enough to risk Draco touching him. A careful dance, as always.

“I want to come on your cock,” Draco said in a heated rush, eyes raking down Harry’s chest to his hard length, “and I want to watch you come, and then I’m going to lick your skin clean, _mon cochon_.”

Harry’s cock throbbed in his hand at the words and blatant desire of the man on top of him. “ _Fuck_ , Draco.” His breathing grew shallow as tension built. “Better hurry.”

Draco smiled tightly, hips rocking in a gentle sway over Harry’s thighs. His face went slack as his hips drove forward and thrust, hot streaks arcing down across Harry’s cock and hips.

The tension in Harry’s pelvis unwound, and he came in a long, guttural groan. Draco watched, gaze intent, as his hand slowly milked the last drops from his length.

His pajamas snapped back into place and he collapsed along Harry’s side, face at his waist. Harry squirmed as a hot, wet tongue slid across to his navel toward the head of his cock.

“Shit,” he hissed, and shoved himself down into his pants. “That was kind of close, Dray.”

Draco growled softly as his teeth scraped lightly down the line of dark hair to the edge of his pants. Draco shifted to hover over him again, grey eyes steady on his as Draco’s mouth worked over the cotton of his boxers. Teeth traced the edges of his sensitive cock, and he hummed, resisting the urge to hold Draco’s mouth against him.

Anxiety trickled through Harry. Draco was entirely too close to the fly of his pants, and he was still rather hard and twitchy. His fingers threaded through silken platinum hair and urged the other man higher.

“ _Mon coeur_ ,” he sighed, lapping stray drops from Harry’s chest, “the more of you I get, the more I want. It’s a serious issue.” He settled in along Harry’s side, head on Harry’s chest.

“Two weeks, Dray.”

“Mm hm.” Draco hummed in agreement, but sighed heavily, with a hint of resignation. “Thirteen days and four hours, and then I’m going to..." His tongue licked a wide swath up Harry's chest. "Fuck. You. Apart.”

Harry’s cock twitched as his shoulders shuddered.

“It’s a date.”

___—————————————_ _ _

The harp was perfect. Just fucking perfect. Draco dabbed his eyes with the hem of the yellow Cannons sweatshirt and ran his fingers along the soundboard again. Perfect fit for his arms, which meant it was a rather large instrument. Perfect height, which, again, meant it was on the large size, even for a floor harp. No modern pedals or doo-dads.

Nothing remotely modern about it, at all. In fact, it looked positively ancient. The delicate floral scrollwork of the neck looked to have been hand-carved. Just a gorgeous fucking piece of art, all-around.

Gorgeous, but in need of an entirely new set of strings. How they’d snuck this in under his nose was impressive.

Far more impressive was the fucking piano next to it. Why they thought he wanted a piano, he had absolutely no idea.

If Ronald Weasley could smuggle a thrice-damned piano through a Floo, there were no limits to his smuggling career, Draco thought.

He cocked an ear toward the living room as the Floo roared back to life. Ron’s aforementioned return trip. And Harry was down in the spring, oddly quiet with no audience.

Draco dried his eyes a second time for good measure, and walked out to meet Ron, greeting him with a longer-than usual hug.

Blue eyes twinkled at him in understanding. “You found it, then?”

“It’s gorgeous. I can’t even…” Draco took a long breath through his nose. “I can’t begin to thank you.”

“Well, I do have a favor to ask,” Ron said with a touch of hesitation.

Draco shook his head. “Too much time with those Goblins. What is it?”

“I need to get something to Greece without the whole world knowing, and the Goblins said you might know a set of twins who could help?”

Draco let his surprise show. Ron really was becoming a smuggler, then. Good for him. The least criminal of crimes, really. No victims but bureaucrats.

“Ugh, yes.” Draco schooled the disgust off his face. “Calix and Basilia Onasis. What is it, though?” Personally, he wouldn’t trust the Onasis twins to transport anything perishable or shiny.

“Uhm… a Griffin?” Ron looked down at his own clasped hands, like they could lessen the burden of the request.

“That’s… not a small thing, Ronald.” Draco bit the inside of his lip in thought. It would work, though. There were few things the twins were loyal to, and this was one of them.

“Yeah, I know. Do you think they’d help?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I wouldn’t trust them with a human child, but they’d walk through fire for a Griffin.” He sighed in resignation. Involving them wouldn’t be fun. “But I don’t know how to contact them. Harry does, though.”

Draco sauntered over to the ladder and considered climbing down to watch Harry bathe, but decided against it. He also considered batting the glasses next to the ladder down into the hole, just to be a prat.

“ _Mon coeur_ ,” he crooned, letting his voice echo. “Do you know how to get in touch with Cal or Baz Onasis? I need to send something to their mother.”

Silence, broken only by the dripping of water, filled the space.

“Baz? Basilia? From Witch Weekly?” Harry muttered. His shock confounded Draco. “Wait. Basilia _Onasis_?!”

“Yes…” Draco drawled. “They’re twins. I think Baz is married, so I don’t know what her last name-“

“They’re related?!” Harry barked, his voice echoing around the spring. Water sloshed as he made his way to the ladder to look up at Draco in astonishment. “That actually kind of makes sense.”

“Does Baz have a Floo at Witch Weekly? I now have many choice words for her.”

Harry squinted up at him, and Draco stifled the urge to slowly dangle a glob of spittle over Harry’s upturned face. Gods, he needed something to replace his runs and flights. Pestering an Auror was not a smart substitute.

“Yeah, she does. Feel free to remind her I hate her while you’re at it. Drop my glasses down.”

Draco picked up the spectacles, lined them up to fall to the side of Harry’s cupped hands, and grinned as they plunked into the water next to his hip. Soft curses wafted up through the hole as Harry felt around underwater for his glasses.

Definitely need to find new outlets, Draco thought to himself. Picking a fight with Basilia Onasis sounded like a fantastic outlet. Better than arguing with Goblins.

———————————

“Do you want him or not, Blown Asses?” Draco spat, again aware that being on all fours with his head stuck through a Floo did not command respect. “Because I could always owl your mother and tell her you turned down an injured Griffin. I’m sure the board of her sanctuary would find that interesting.”

“Of course we want him, beast fucker. Circe, you’re such a bitch. I thought Harry would have fucked it out of you by now.” Basilia huffed and rolled her eyes, reaching across her immense desk for her mobile. “Cal and I can come get him tonight around sunset. Where?”

“Look up Cligga Head on a Muggle map, and knock on the north side of the ward when you get here. And I swear on the Parthenon, if you tell anyone where I live, I will sic Delphi on your family.” Draco wanted to punctuate the statement with a good finger-wagging, but both his hands were occupied with keeping his face off Basilia’s office floor.

“Fine, but you know Cal is going to make himself an exquisitely-burning pain in your ass.”

“I’m far more concerned with the damage your snaggle-toothed mouth can do than your brother’s noodle-dick.”

“Phht,” she scoffed, “your head and your cock have never been on the same page, anyway.” She gestured vaguely to his head-in-London-ass-in-Cornwall situation.

“And yet your cunt seems intent upon them both.” He rolled his eyes, eager to get away from her.

She finished tapping out her text and winked at him. “You’re adorable and we’d both fuck you, Malfoy.”

“Sunset.”

“Fiiiiiine.” Basilia blew him a kiss as he popped back through onto his hearth. He had a strong urge to brush his teeth and bathe in strong vinegar.

Harry clambered up the ladder, naked and dripping in the afternoon sun. Ron looked to Draco for an update on the Griffin situation, but Draco decided watching the Head Auror and his swollen cock walk across the living room was vastly more important.

Merlin Almighty. In less than two weeks, he got to touch that man. _Everywhere._

Harry disappeared between the bookshelves, and Draco drew in a long breath before turning to Ron. “Bring the Griffin to the north edge of the wards at sunset. They’ll take him from there.”

Ron’s smirk faded into befuddlement. “Just… Apparate it here and hand it off?”

“Yeah. They’re awful humans, but their mother runs a Griffin sanctuary on an Aegean island. It’s the one thing they take seriously in life.”

“Alright,” Ron nodded to himself. “I can do that.”

“Just…” Draco frowned, “don’t let either of them touch your dick.”

“Can do,” Ron said with a firm nod.

———————————

Hermione stood at the edge of the Wheal Elvan wards, shopping bags in hand. This must look ridiculous, she thought. Standing in the middle of nowhere knocking repeatedly on a magical ward with arms full of plastic shopping bags.

Maybe she should have gone to Diagon Alley for the music. Harry had said it was entirely up to her, which was smart on his part. He probably thought AC/DC was classical music.

Fading sunlight hit the small rocks of the field in front of her, scattered parallel shadows like starting lines on a racetrack. Soft cooing burbled from the owls in the little rookery to her right. Ron’s attention to detail was obvious in the design, and the small owls inside seemed happy.

She sighed and tapped the ward again. Ron Weasley’s attention to detail was downright addictive, she thought, as a smile crept across her face. She’d really expected to just sneak over to the Burrow and pick a rose, not have him burst out of an empty house, profess his love, and spend the morning in bed with her.

And what a morning. Few men were physically capable of matching a woman orgasm-for-orgasm, but Ron was apparently one of them. If the kitchen had been stocked, she might have stayed indefinitely.

The ward yielded in front of her, and she made her way up the path, kicking rocks to the side as she walked. An underwhelming view for such a wonderfully inviting home. As she neared the garden wall, something delicious wafted out to tempt her. Something meaty and rich that made her mouth water.

The door swung open, revealing a Draco in his customary plaid pajama bottoms, now paired with a ratty, mustard-colored Chudley Cannons sweatshirt. Harry’s shirt, she thought with a soft smile. He didn’t look that bad in yellow, after all.

“ _Ma chatte!_ ” Draco called. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

“I hadn’t expected dinner, but it smells wonderful.” He leaned down to kiss her cheeks in greeting, but his hands snuck around her waist and pulled her in. With a soft hum, she buried her face in his chest. Scents of teakwood mixed with browned butter and coffee made her breath shudder in.

“I promised our Auror _boeuf bourguignon_ weeks ago, and finally made time for it,” Draco murmured, his mouth resting against her hair. He took a deep breath and sighed. “I hear I have you to thank for the strings.”

She pulled back to grin up at him. “I wasn’t sure what kind would work best, so I got both.”

He laid a chaste kiss across her forehead and closed the door behind her. “They’re perfect. I spent all day tuning it, which I’ve never had to do by ear. So it may be a bit off.”

He rambled on as she followed him through the kitchen, giving Harry a cursory wave as he sat at the table, looking ready to rip his hair out over a pile of file folders.

“-but I still don’t know why Ron brought a piano. They do have quite a bit in common, and share most compositions, but I don’t know-“

“I play piano, Draco.” Wide grey eyes turned to look at her, monologue interrupted.

“ _You do?!_ ” He looked at her like she’d just admitted she was part-Kneazle. Did he not know Muggles made music?

“Yes. I haven’t in a very long time, but I’m fairly sure I haven’t forgotten it all.” She slid her wand out of her back pocket and opened the top of the upright piano, peering into the dusty darkness. “I took lessons until I left for Hogwarts, and then during breaks after that.”

She cast a quick _Lumos_ inside the piano to check for any major issues, then a rather strong _Oscilletur_. Her finger ran across the keys as she relished the perfectly tuned notes.

Draco stared at her, baffled. “I… had no idea there were spells for that.”

She winced in sympathy. He probably spent all day restringing and tuning his new harp. “I might have created that spell when I was fifteen.”

“Granger,” he said with a sigh. “Every time I convince myself I like you for your tits and ass, you go and so something like that, and I just want to lick your brain till you come.”

She opened her mouth to object, but found she didn’t. “I appreciate the sentiment, but there are more effective parts to lick.” He stepped forward, heat in his gaze, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. “I have music for you first. I just bought what I like, because I have absolutely no idea what you like.”

The glossy books slid out of the bags with a crinkle, and she handed them off. He drew silver reading glasses from his pocket as he shuffled through them, examining titles. Finding harp transcriptions had been a surprising pain in the rear, but maybe it was worth it.

She straddled the piano bench to watch him peruse the books. It had taken days to hunt them all down, and ended with her at a music shoppe manager’s garage, digging through a cardboard box.

“Why Debussy?” he asked, in perfectly-accented French, of course.

She shrugged. “I played a Debussy piece for my last piano recital when I was a kid.”

“I fucking adore Debussy, _ma chatte_. ‘Passipied’ is quite possibly the best arrangement of notes for strings on this earth. I managed to play it exactly once without fucking it up.”

“I didn’t figure you’d be keen on _‘Danseuses de Delphe’_ ,” she said with a soft smirk.

“No, but for many reasons,” he admitted, closing the books and setting them on top of the piano. His gaze drifted to her as he pocketed his glasses, face growing serious. “When I was ten, I secretly hoped an owl would bring me a letter from the conservatory next to _La Vilette_. Illogical, entirely. But it was near the townhouse in Paris. Debussy began study there when he was ten or eleven. Narcissa and I were at the townhouse on my eleventh birthday, and I got the letter from Hogwarts, instead.”

He eased himself down onto the piano bench facing her. His gaze was a million miles away, but she very much wanted to go with him to wherever he was thinking about with such reverence.

“I was disappointed, to say the least. It’s really all I remember of that summer. There is… or at least was… a garden of mirrors next to the conservatory. I used to sneak off and bounce spells off the mirrors when Narcissa was… Narcissaing.”

She scooted forward and rested her hands on his knees, spreading her own wider. “What does it look like in, say, late October?”

“Oh,” he continued, not catching her drift. “It’s especially lovely if they haven’t raked the leaves and the oaks are turning.” His mouth snapped shut, and she grinned.

“We can go there in a few weeks, Draco,” she said softly, not sure if revisiting a childhood sanctuary was too much.

He didn’t reply, studying his hands on the bench between them, instead. She rubbed her palms up and down his thighs, keeping his attention in the room, and in the present. Forehead softly furrowed, he looked up, grey eyes a mix of emotions.

He scooted forward and leaned in, laying a kiss on her cheek. “ _J’taime, ma chatte_ ,” he whispered with the barest hit of a smirk.

She returned it with a full grin. “I love you, too.”

The words felt different than when she’d said them to Ron. With Draco, it felt well-reasoned and a sensible admission. Not the romantic, blurted confession in the Burrow garden.

He licked his lips, and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing. “It’s a love from the head, I think.”

She felt her eyes grow wide with comprehension. “It is.”

A shared love of old texts and the resonance of a plucked string decorating the air between moments. The love of teaching and of learning. The love of solving puzzles, even when the puzzles were each other.

“They take after you quite a bit, you know. The youngest two,” he murmured as he slid her thighs up over his, lips inching toward her ear.

“You had another dream?” She pulled back to see his face. He was always so damned cagey about sharing them, even though he knew she loved them. He nodded cautiously. “Can I see?”

He nodded again and closed his eyes briefly before she felt the familiar coldness skitter across an eye, and a messy wad of glowing white drifted into her mind’s vision.

————————————

His arms tightened around her as they sat entwined on the bench. And sat. And sat.

He clasped his hands behind her back and leaned her forward as his impatience grew. Her face leaned into his shoulder, and he laid his cheek over her forehead.

She often reviewed dreams multiple times, but she must have decided to memorize this one. It was a good one, he figured. And damned if that kid didn’t have a hell of a stage presence.

 _Felix_ , he reminded himself. Not an eaglet, not a kid, not just the auburn-haired boy. _Felix_. He felt as real as any of the children at the library in Truro. He sighed and wondered what section of the library would be Felix’s favorite. Philosophy or war history seemed likely.

Hermione’s eyelids fluttered against his neck, and he tilted her head back to watch her eyes open. Tears welled in the outer corners of her lids as gold-flecked brown eyes found his.

She opened her mouth to speak, but hesitated before trying a second time. “I want him,” she whispered in a daze, longing heavy in her eyes.

To theoretically want children was one thing, but to know them and desire them into being was a heady, powerful rush. Not something to rush into, however.

“Patience, _ma buveur d’encre_ ,” he chided softly, ignoring the tightness in his throat. “Matriculation before maternity.”

Her lips on his neck drew his attention back, and her hands drifted to his hips, inching herself forward. “And I want you.”

Goosebumps ran down his arms as he slid them forward, giving himself space to lean back. She took the hint and leaned her weight onto him, not quite straddling him as he lay back. His shoulders were wider than the bench, putting him in the awkward position of having to lay flat, feet on the floor, hands finding the curve of her ass.

She rose from his neck to find his lips. Tentatively at first, soft nips until his lips parted to admit her. Quickly, then, her tongue skimming, eager whimpers from her throat as her hips found a soft rhythm against his.

Her breath hitched to panting as she ground against him, rising up, hands gripping his shirt. His hands steadied her hips, hardening length trapped in tightening pants. Her feet left the floor to hook under his legs, and he hesitated.

“ _Ma chatte_ , I don’t think-“

A splintering crack interrupted him, followed by a tumble and squawk as the bench collapsed. His breath thudded out in a rush, and she briefly caught herself, but crashed on top of him, pinning him against the wood.

Brown and gold eyes peeped up from his chest. “Are you okay?”

“As I was saying… I don’t think this bench is built for making metaphorical music on,” he said as he sat up with a groan.

It was sheer luck he’d taken a moment to look up at her and raise his head before the bench collapsed. Not much to be done if the Healer is the one with a concussion.

She nuzzled her face against him, taking a deep breath. “Thanks for breaking my fall.”

“Lucky that’s all I broke, itchy witch,” he teased. “Bed?”

“Yeah, I-“ she leaned forward onto her hands to rise, but hissed in pain.

Alarm coursed through him at her pained grimace. He slid out from under her, knocking broken bench legs out of his path with a scowl.

Cross-legged, he sat in front of her and held his hands out. Gingerly, she offered him a hand, curled limply like a wounded paw. Shallow scuff marks marred the heel of her palm where she’d caught her weight.

“Wrist?” he asked, already fairly certain in his assessment. She nodded and winced as he turned her hand over between his own. Long, cool fingers skimmed the bones of her forearm. “Hairline fracture.”

Her brow creased as she weighed options, and his followed suit. Healing Ron had been a rather easy choice. The man was practically dead upon his arrival. Healing Harry had given him a bit more pause until he’d realized the extent of the nerve damage. It had been worth the bond for both of those. He’d hardly been around Ron, anyway. With Harry, it had led to a particularly good orgasm.

Hermione’s injury was relatively minor by comparison. And, she’d already seen the inside of his head quite a bit, so perhaps knew better than the other two what she’d be getting herself into.

“You choose, _ma chatte_. Six to eight weeks in a wrist brace, or… probably five hours of being subject to a Blood magic bond with an occasionally unstable Healer with a dead sister and two insane parents,” he proposed in a rush. “I would not begrudge you if you took the Healing and flew off into the night.”

She chewed at her lip, eyes wandering to the keys above them. “Can I play piano in a wrist brace?”

He snorted a laugh and set her injured wrist on her knee. “I wouldn’t advise it, no.”

Her head tilted side to side, as if sifting options like sand through a sieve. “I didn’t even get to play it yet.” She looked him squarely in the eye. “I will risk the inside of your head, Draco. And I don’t plan on leaving, and am a little offended you suggested it.”

A grin spread across his face as he slipped a hand in his pocket for his knife. It would be an absolutely minuscule Healing, as far as they went. All the intricacy of making a sandwich, compared to the laborious coronation feast that was knitting one Ronald Weasley back together.

“You are the best swot of them all, Councilwoman Granger. Risking your sanity for the sake of music.”

“Might be risking my knickers more than my sanity,” she said flippantly, as he slid hands under her wrist and made a tiny nick in the skin on the thumb-side. He nodded in agreement.

His knife slid easily between his fingers, as always, without a flinch, but she watched him like a hawk. A suspicious amount of fascination, he thought.

“You haven’t actually seen either of us use Blood magic, have you?”

She shook her head, eyes wide and lips parted. “Ron says it feels especially illegal to use it in front of a Ministry employee, and I guess I haven’t been around you when you used it.”

“We’ve done nothing but book learning.” Draco’s breath huffed out, disappointed with himself as he pocketed the knife. “Well, consider this the practicum, _ma chatte_.”

She took a deep breath as his hand approached her wrist. “Okay.”

———————————

“Ow…” she whimpered, as the pinpricks coalesced into a burning, crackling, bone-deep pain. “Ow, ow, _ow!_ ”

The small cut in her skin knit back together, and she looked up to find Draco rolling his eyes. She chuffed and steadied herself against the knowledge that he’d inflicted the same Healing on himself in much larger doses, and at much younger ages. A sobering perspective.

“Sorrow, _ma chatte_? Unexpected.” A soft frown washed over his face as he brought his cut to his lips. A soft whine of Healing, and he removed it.

“I… I’m not sure how to shut this off. The bond.” His emotions flooded through her, but they were amorphous, coming from every direction. Trepidation, fascination, and an overarching need to run. She swallowed thickly as she tried to sort them out.

“Hm,” he huffed, consternated. “Maybe you can’t. Magnus couldn’t.”

Pity and wariness leached into her. “But you exchanged blood on a daily basis, right? The tattoos?”

He nodded, his wistfulness trickling through her. “He had a front row seat for a couple of tumultuous years.” He paused to think, giving her a bit of reprieve. “Maybe talented Legilimens are more prone to it. You’re quite good, you know.”

Pride radiated through her chest, her own reflected in his. Shuffling feet in the doorway drew their attention, and Harry’s form filled the space.

“Hey,” he muttered, running hands through his chaotic snarl of hair, “I heard a crash and then it got really quiet… So I… You broke shit already, ‘Mione?”

She scowled at the accusation and looked to Draco, but his eyes roved over Harry’s body unabashedly. Reflected lust coursed through her in a hot, excoriating rush, pooling in her gut as she gasped. “Oh, fuck.”

“Bah, _bordel de merde_ ,” he hissed. “I have bound the cat and she can’t pull herself away.”

“Huh,” Harry huffed, disinterested. His hazel eyes flicked between her and Draco, and she realized her throat was making eager little whimpers without her. “Oh. Oh, no,” Harry muttered. “Dray, that’s not good.”

A rush of sentiment from Draco tamped down her arousal, but only enough for her to speak around it. She licked her lips, making a few attempts at speech. “It might be really, really good, Harry.”

Fear trickled back through her as Draco turned to look her way. Godric’s gonads, she thought. Ron wasn’t kidding when he said Draco was either horny or terrified at any given moment.

Harry cleared his throat, fidgeting nervously. “Blood magic bonds and Legilimency… Bad? Right?

Draco’s terror and claustrophobia assaulted her, and she shuddered.

“Not necessarily bad, _mon coeur_.” Draco stood and offered her a hand up out of their wreckage. “But if you can read someone’s thoughts as well as give them your own, you can sort of… cultivate them.” He dropped her hand as she stood. “It can be done with exceptional skill and care, and it can be done with unprecedented ruthlessness.”

Harry studied Draco, jaw clenching and unclenching as he stepped aside in the doorway. “Which was Falk?”

Ice trilled through her veins as Draco paused. His gaze drifted as he thought, and she sighed at his quiet contemplation.

“Both, in appropriate measure.” Harry’s gaze didn’t waver, and she felt Draco’s reluctance. “I’m taking the swot to bed, _mon coeur_. I’m hesitant to invite my Auror, for lack of my own restraint.”

Harry smirked and followed them into the kitchen. “I could text Luna.”

Draco whirled, and his anger skated hot pinpoints down her chest. “ _Harry._ ”

“Oh, shit.”

Hermione stopped, gaze flitting back and forth between them, absolutely baffled by Draco’s anger and Harry terror-stricken face.

“Um… what about Luna?”

Harry mouthed words to Draco that looked suspiciously like, _I’m so sorry_ , followed by a wince. Bitter resignation rolled from Draco in waves.

He sighed, grey eyes turning to her as his shoulders relaxed down. “Luna and I have been meeting sporadically for three years to either play-hunt as Animagi or fuck in a somewhat spectacularly elaborate fashion.”

Harry snorted a laugh, and Draco flipped him off. Humor bounced out of him, along with a slick of relief as he watched her nonplussed reaction.

“Huh,” she huffed. “What’s her Animagus form?”

Disbelief cascaded out of him, and he followed Harry’s laugh with his own. “Not ‘what kind of spectacularly elaborate fuck?’, but ‘what’s her Animagus form?’ I guess I expect no less from the piano swot.”

He dabbed an eye and reined in his mirth. “A rabbit. She files my talons down and I give her a head start.”

Nostalgia and affection crept from him as she considered the myriad of questions on the tip of her tongue. “I am curious about the ‘spectacularly elaborate fuck’, as you put it. But only if you want to share. She’s… important to you, isn’t she?”

He nodded, face carefully neutral, but humming waves of protectiveness washed from him like a tide. His expression was careful consideration, but his emotions felt like a wild animal whose den had been threatened.

“Okay, then. I like Luna,” she said with a shrug. Far be it from her to tell him he should abandon something she couldn’t give. Apprehension trickled from him, and he picked at a cuticle, not meeting her gaze. “Anyone else?”

“Kind of. Pansy,” he muttered, bringing the hand to his lips. “When she’s single and sad and we’re both very drunk and it’s my birthday…”

“I thought she was a lesbian,” Hermione barked, shocked. “Like, very much so. She stole my knickers.”

Harry leaned back against the sink, head cocked, eyeing Draco warily. He must not have known about Pansy, either. Draco’s embarrassment washed down her as they both waited for his response, and it surprised her. Maybe ganging up on him wasn’t the best approach.

Draco shrugged, letting a fall of blond hair obscure his face. “She is, but I’m very pretty, and she likes… We were betrothed, you know, and we…”

Hermione didn’t know the feeling that preceded heartbreak had a physical sensation, but there it was. An excruciating stretching of heartstrings not meant to act as tethers. A burning pull to near-breaking behind her ribs.

“You really don’t have to explain, Draco,” she murmured. The shame radiating from him was suffocating. “If you like what you do with her, that’s fine. But if you don’t want to do it, don’t.”

The shame washed away in a rain of gratitude that brought tears to her eyes. Harry tipped forward away from the sink and wrapped his arms around Draco, soft murmurs flowing between them. She expected arousal from him, but instead felt peace settle in. Harry said something to him about the Floo, and he nodded, wiping his cheeks on Harry’s shoulder.

Draco spoke, barely above a whisper, gaze askance. “I can keep them?”

She and Harry exchanged a confused, worried glance and both nodded. “Of course,” she whispered, as Harry hummed his agreement, face in Draco’s hair.

“But not Falk,” Harry grumbled, releasing him.

Draco’s amused annoyance flitted through her. He rolled his eyes at Harry. “Insecure for a major political figure, Potter.”’

Harry shrugged. “I thought I was just greedy.” He smirked at Draco, snuck a quick grope, and wandered back to his file folder fortress. Draco watched him walk, arousal rising and soaking into Hermione.

She leaned in and whispered to Draco, “He _is_ , though, isn’t he?”

“I’m counting on it, _ma chatte_.”

————————————

Draco inhaled sharply as Ron’s signature tapped on the wards. Crisp, line-dried linen. He sent permissions and frowned at the ceiling, ignoring the witch nipping up his thigh. A second signature like a dizzying spiral descent and rush of hot blood slid through the ward behind Ron. He blinked to clear the sensation. It made the itch to grow wings and fly nearly unbearable.

He’d better not be bringing that Griffin to the fucking house, Draco thought with a start. Hermione’s eyes popped up to assess him, probably assuming she’d nipped something tender. Which she had, but not in a bad way.

Two more signatures tapped against the ward, and he frowned. One was the stop-start skid of too-clean fingertips over glass, and the other felt like licking sun-warmed citrus peel. Both vaguely unpleasant interpretations of otherwise rather pleasing things. Fitting for the Onasis twins.

“What is it?” Hermione’s head rose to watch him with open suspicion. He’d almost forgotten about the fading bond. It had dissipated even faster than he’d expected, which was convenient. Subjecting Harry to another hour of being a sexual bystander would have been exceptionally cruel.

“I… thought I heard something,” he said weakly.

“Huh,” she huffed. “You’re lying. And I can _feel_ it. Weird.”

A firm knock sounded on the bookcase, and Draco looked up to find Harry leaning in the doorway. He held the ward-tethered bracelet up. “Why did Calix, Basilia, and Ron all just cross the wards?”

Hermione’s eyes glinted as she likely tasted Draco’s caginess. Carefully-chosen words were in order.

“Ron is handing something off to them for their mother’s charity,” he said precisely. “Something rather noble of him to donate, and by which he came honestly. But he lacks certain paperwork to transfer it by traditional means.”

Harry’s gaze flitted back and forth between Draco’s face and Hermione’s proffered ass. He lingered too long on her, and licked his lips. Draco did the same, watching the other man’s interest catch. Between his legs, Hermione moaned softly, picking up Draco's desire. Gods, what a tinderbox.

“Uh… huh,” Harry grunted warily. His bracelet flared again, and he frowned. “That was fast. They all just left.”

Hermione shrugged and snuggled down on her side between his legs, face conveniently next to his groin. “Pity. He could have stayed.”

“Mm hmm,” Draco grunted softly as her mouth found his cock again. “ _Ma chatte_ , you’ve hit your limit for the day. Shoo!”

She growled softly and blew a raspberry in the crease of his groin. He squirmed and nudged her away as his gaze drifted up to Harry in the doorway. Green eyes watched the scene eagerly, but his posture was stiff, hesitant.

“You can’t have it all, greedy witch. The Head Auror has been very patient today, and I believe he gets off in an hour.”

“Does he, now?” Harry asked, eyebrows raised.

——————————

Harry scooted chunks of tender beef around, searching out any remaining mushrooms in his bowl. The whole meal was nothing short of amazing, but the mushrooms were perfect. A caramelized coating on the outside, and just the right thickness to be a little chewy. He’d have eaten an entire bowl of them alone.

They were heavenly enough to distract him from the new case files at the far end of the table. The ones with pictures of bodies in various states of decomposition, along with examiner records and a whole slew of known and possible identities.

The serving spoon hovered over his bowl briefly, then poured a solid scoop of only mushrooms in. Grey eyes watched him with easy affection as he smiled back.

How to tell a man that his father was going to be tried for several murders, not just the one? Draco had only ever asked that he find Liore, knowing it would be enough to put Lucius away for life. He hadn’t asked Harry to go send squads on a _Mobilcorpus_ free-for-all and turn up a bunch of bodies.

Lucius might get the Kiss for it, and all Draco had hoped for was a life sentence.

“More mushrooms next time,” Draco said with a nod. Harry glanced at the other man’s bowl and suspected he’d donated his own mushrooms, as well. “Your predilections entrance me,” he said with a sigh.

“She could have stayed, you know. I wouldn’t have minded.” Harry alternated mushrooms and carrots on his fork, lining them up just so.

“I minded.” Draco skewered a pearl onion and chunk of meat. “She wouldn’t have appreciated dinner in her current state.”

Some of the tension in Harry’s shoulders eased. He’d been grateful when Draco had handed her a big bowl of stew and rice and scooted her politely out the door, but it felt selfish to admit it out loud. But it wasn’t her, or their _shenanigans_.

“Next time,” Draco continued, waving his empty fork for emphasis, “I’ll put some space between us after Healing. That was a bit intrusive.” He wiggled sheepishly and looked at Harry. “And maybe a bit loud during work hours?”

Draco watched him patiently, but Harry just shook his head softly. They hadn’t been quiet, but he had headphones and a decent amount of focus. “It was fine, Dray, really.”

Draco fidgeted and eyed him warily. “You’re not fine, though.”

“Oh,” Harry huffed, unaware he was so visibly uncomfortable. “It’s the case. Or… cases, now.” He set his fork down, joined by his glasses, so he could scrub his hands over his face. “It’s turning out to be a bigger ordeal than we’d anticipated.”

Draco chewed slowly, fork turning rice over to mix it with gravy. He swallowed and loaded another bite. “I request a full update from the Head Auror himself. At his discretion, of course.”

With a sigh, Harry rehashed their findings so far, and couldn’t think of any details that couldn’t be shared with his potential witness. All of the bodies were so old that Draco couldn’t possibly be implicated in any of the crimes.

Draco swallowed another bite, and Harry realized he’d been staring off into space for several moments. “ _Mon coeur_ , you won’t scare me with the details. I’ve seen worse.”

Harry nodded. Draco had survived worse. “Alright,” he started, setting his fork down. “Liore will be interred tomorrow night. They’re going to cast a _Fidelis_ over the graveyard, just to be safe. Molly volunteered as Secret Keeper.” Draco nodded his approval, so Harry continued.

“The bodies they found near the tree line at the Manor all show evidence of trauma and residual Unforgivable curses. I haven’t asked for them to be screened for any kind of Blood Magic, because I’m not sure we need to, and because I have no idea how to even do that.”

Draco swallowed another bite of rice and flicked his fork back and forth in objection. “You can’t. That’s why it’s ‘Dark’ and illegal and an integral part of my mystique.”

“Right, your secret murderous Hufflepuff tendencies,” Harry said with a grin. Draco shot him a scowl that didn’t really reach his eyes. He took a deep breath and dreaded the real issue. “So… if they find evidence… well, I guess they already have. When the evidence points to Lucius… I’m guessing that’ll change his sentence…”

Grey eyes drifted up to him slowly, and Draco barked a wry laugh. “Dray, you’d get a say in the re-sentencing, but honestly, I don’t think they’re going to let him live.”

Blonde hair fell over his face as he leaned forward, shoulders shaking. Harry suspected he was crying, but the bitter laugh had surprised him. “I mean, I know you weren’t exactly close, but if you wanted to argue for a life-“

“ _Mon coeur_ , do you know what his last words to his son were? After he spat a Dark curse at him?”

Harry gripped his fork tightly, worried he’d set something in motion he wouldn’t be able to control. “Uhm, no.”

“I’ll kill you,” Draco said drolly. “His last words to his son, heir, and self-purported reason for being were, I kid you not, ‘I’ll kill you.’”

“Wow.” Harry sat back in his chair and exhaled slowly. Chalk one up for Lucius being an unrepentant murderer, then. In fact, issuing a recent death threat was pretty good evidence.

“Let him have the Kiss,” Draco muttered around a piece of beef. “See if he even remembers how to pucker.”

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Ink-Drinker

_Ma buveur d’encre_  
Your pedantry? Touch nightmarish.

_Ma buveur d’encre_

In Muggle terms: Policy Wonk  
Disposition? Rather squarish.  
Never change, Bright One I cherish.

_Ma buveur d’encre_

DLM 2008 Wheal Elvan Truro   
*********************************

Felix Caelum Granger

A Slytherin with lion’s heart,  
You kicked my ass right from the start.

Born at dawn, named after luck,  
Your first words were “What the fuck!”

My Icaris who’s scared of heights,  
My pacifist who starts the fights.

A better man, I haven’t met,  
Even though you’re not grown yet.

DLM 2019 Hogwarts Detention Chamber  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	33. Fanned Fare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT  
> Harry, just admit you want to do butt stuff.  
> Hermione, just admit law school sucks.
> 
> Ron... watch out for rock tumblers  
> Draco... watch out for cock fumblers.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Psychoponce

“Psychopomp”, you know the word?  
Gods, it’s lovely. Psycho. Pomp.  
Pomp and circumstance.  
Psycho trills, “I’ll have this dance.”

Psychopomps, death’s first escorts.  
Charon and the River Styx?  
A battlefield’s closest cohorts.  
Pied Piper with the music nixed.

Anubis? Valkries? Nothing? No?  
Perhaps you won’t like where we go.  
PSYCHOPOMP! Fuck, it’s grand.  
No one lives like Death’s left hand.

DLM 1998 St. Petersburg Russia  
*********************************

Speechless, for once

Well, I never…  
Rarely, then, have my words failed me.  
Well… I never.  
All the sudden but forever.  
Dead of night, silence assails me,  
Voiced again, for you who hailed me.  
Well, I never…?

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro   
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

Harry closed Liore’s file with a sigh, tapped a magical seal on it with his wand, and dropped it in a box. It felt wrong that the Aurors on her case were more involved than Draco. They’d seen her interred, said a few words, a couple of them cried, and they went to the Leaky. Draco had signed off on the obituary wording and mausoleum placard, but that was all.

Harry looked up from the table to ask Draco if he’d like to visit the mausoleum, but found the other man dozing on the couch, Crookshanks curled in his lap. Draco’s grayscale plaid pajama bottoms stuck out amongst the sunset of orange fur, yellow sweatshirt, and red velvet upholstery in the day’s dying light.

Cute, though, he thought as he snatched his phone and took a picture. The shutter sound was suspiciously loud, and Draco’s eyebrow quirked.

"Didn’t even pose, _mon coeur_ ,” he muttered, eyes still closed. Crookshanks’ yellow eyes glared at Harry.

“I’ve been sending her pictures of orange cats for years. Not gonna stop now.” He sent the picture, and it occurred to him that he hadn’t sent her an actual cat meme in months.

Draco’s breath shuddered in as he woke and proceeded to stretch as luxuriously as the confines of a sofa would allow. He curled forward around the cat with arms outstretched, then arched back in a long line over the armrest, stomach bared below the sweatshirt, and finally a solid side bend in each direction. Crookshanks shifted his weight and admirably maintained his position across Draco’s thighs.

It had become fairly routine, Harry had noticed; Draco dozing off around sunset. He tended to wake for the day around sunrise, too. When he was cooking dinner, he usually made a pot of coffee, but still faded fairly quickly after the sun had been down for a few hours.

“Do eagles roost from sundown to sunrise?” Harry asked, skirting around a theory and desperately trying to not imagine Draco in a little leather falconry hood, tricked into a nap by sudden darkness.

“Mm hmm,” he hummed lazily. He bundled the cat up higher onto his chest and threw an arm across his face.

“Did you just tuck your head under your wing?” He chuckled, wondering how many of Draco’s idiosyncrasies were actually remnants of his Animagus form.

Draco grunted softly and rolled onto his side, arms wrapped around Crookshanks. “Fuck off, Auror.”

Harry grinned, checked the time, and cleared off the table. “Sounds good to me, but I know better than to fuck off on that couch again.”

Draco’s deep, steady breaths and the cat’s purr were the only response. Harry chewed his lip as he walked over and watched them sleep. Beyond cute, he thought.

He could just let Draco sleep, he figured. But he’d have a very pouty blonde come morning when Draco found out he’d missed an entire evening. And he needed Draco out of the room to set something up before he turned in for the night.

There were probably preferred ways of waking a man up, but not many of them worked well when said man was curled up on his side around a particularly vicious cat. Extracting the cat would be paramount, but was easily done.

Harry levitated a chunk of leftover beef from the kitchen, through the living room, and let it hover above the couch. Nostrils flaring, Crookshanks’ head emerged as he sought out the morsel. With a flick, the meat landed in the cat’s bowl in the kitchen. A flow of orange fluff followed it, and Draco’s empty arms fell flat.

His toes curled and uncurled in his sleep, and Harry reconsidered. Heating up some dinner before waking him would be smart. Personally, he wasn’t very hungry, but he was feeling rather piggish.

————————————

_The Kneazle wanted to try halibut, and far be it from Draco to deny him the opportunity. Especially when his purring made the nest so warm._

_But this water was too shallow for a good halibut, so he wheeled around to glide further out across the choppy water. Once the storm came in, it would be too rough to pluck anything from the sea without getting slapped by waves._

_His head turned, wings tilted, but his tail feathers wouldn’t steer. He tried again, the other direction, but they stuck straight, pointing him toward land. His talons were free, but his hips just wouldn’t-_

A wet _snort_ rattled his brain and popped his eyes open. He shouted, hands batting wildly around his face.

A pair of glasses hit the stone floor with a crunch, and gleeful hazel eyes glinted down at him above a wild grin. Draco blinked repeatedly to get his bearings and wits about him.

Harry straddled his hips, palms on Draco’s chest, and had apparently seen fit to _snort right in his fucking ear like a damned hog_ to wake him.

“Hi,” Harry chirped, ass wiggling. He looked very pleased with himself. 

Draco’s gazed raked down the other man’s form, bottom lip between his teeth in consideration. Harry’s old Harpies t-shirt clung nicely to his chest, no worse-off for having missed two weeks of Auror training. His jeans were tight, but Draco knew from previous experience that they were surprisingly stretchy. They had to be to accommodate the growing erection inside them.

Draco cleared his throat and licked his lips. “ _Mon cochon_.” The words landed with a fair amount of dignity, even after his startled flailing.

“Hi,” Harry repeated, his hips settling into an enticing sway. “I heated up some dinner.”

A deep, shuddering breath and arch of his back shook Draco as he yawned. Harry watched him intently, hands on Draco’s chest. Unfocused green eyes watched him eagerly. Far too eagerly for a discussion of reheated leftovers.

Draco’s hands drifted up Harry’s arms to his shoulders, then traced slowly down his sides. Harry’s hips pressed harder against Draco, and Draco slid a hand down to adjust himself inside his pajama bottoms. Not a bad way to wake up, he thought as his hands settled on the waistband of Harry’s jeans.

“I can’t say I’m hungry, _mon cochon_ ,” he whispered, letting desire flow between the words. “A bit peckish, maybe.”

Soft lips met his as Harry lowered himself down. His teeth nipped gently at Draco’s bottom lip in offering. Draco shifted his shoulders and relaxed into Harry’s invitation. Granted entry, Harry’s lips wandered down Draco’s jaw, never one to linger too long in one place.

Harry hummed eagerly as Draco’s fingertips traced the tight edge of his trousers and met at the button. A soft breath huffed out of him as Draco popped it open and slid the zipper down.

Harry’s nose snuffled below Draco’s ear, and he grabbed fistfuls of Harry’s waistband tight in warning. “Don’t you dare, Potter.”

His soft laugh was far too close to another snort, and Draco leaned his head away, but Harry’s lips followed. “I’ll huff, and I’ll puff…” Harry paused. “Wait. That’s what the wolf says.”

“Off.” Draco grumbled, tugging at the denim.

Harry’s face fell, and he stood, shoulders slumped as he buttoned his jeans.

“I mean the trousers, _mon cochon_ ,” he said with a sigh. “You,” he pointed at Harry, “get right back on here.” He slid his pajama bottoms down and kicked them off.

Harry’s grin lit up his face as he wiggled out of the jeans. He lost his shirt for good measure, and hopped back up to straddle Draco.

“Are you wearing my pants?” Draco said suspiciously. They both wore dark green boxer briefs. Matching ones.

Harry shrugged. “I woke up to some bloke yanking mine right off me and replacing them with a skirt. So yeah, maybe I wasn’t paying attention when I got dressed.”

Draco tried to keep a straight face and failed, so settled for wrapping his hand around the thick underpants-clad cock in front of him. Harry groaned and sat up straight to grip the back of the couch, his ass rubbing up and down Draco’s length.

His breath hissed in as Harry’s hips picked up speed. The man was entirely too good at riding a cock for a man who’d never ridden a fucking cock. The friction against his own length was almost too much, and he slipped his free hand down his own pants, gripping the head of his cock gently. Harry pressed his ass against the knuckles of Draco’s fist and _groaned_ as he moved against them.

“Fuck, _mon cochon_ ,” he whispered. 

Sounds like that would have Draco tumbling into a climax far too soon. Harry’s hips thrust his clothed length through Draco’s fist and alternately pressed down against Draco’s knuckles. 

Draco tightened his grip on Harry’s cock and _pushed_ his other fist up. The other man groaned again and chanted long strings of expletives as he moved.

“Fuck… fuck…” Harry whispered. Draco pressed his thumb behind Harry’s sac while he moved, judging his reaction. “Oh, _gods_! Fuck me, Dray…” 

Tension wound tight and broke as Draco came, Harry’s words driving him to release in his own hand.

A choking groan hitched from Harry as his hips bucked. His body throbbed against Draco’s thumb, and he held Harry’s cock tight while he came.

Harry shook his head and chuffed a lazy laugh. “Not every day I come in another bloke’s pants.” He flopped down onto Draco, eliciting a soft _oomph_.

“Thank you for sparing the upholstery, _mon cochon_.” 

Draco spelled his hand clean and ran his fingers through Harry’s hair as his head settled onto the yellow Cannons sweatshirt. Harry’s heart thundered against Draco’s chest, and they both relaxed as their breathing steadied.

Harry Potter was proving to be more adventurous with his ass in the heat of the moment than he let on. According to Hermione, he’d never invited her to explore it. 

It begged the question of if _anyone_ , including Harry himself, ever had. Apart from him briefly mentioning Millicent Bulstrode and some kind of drunken escapade, he suspected the answer was utter anal neglect.

Draco kissed the dark mop of hair on his chest and grabbed a solid handful of Harry’s clothed ass. He stroked a finger near his crack for emphasis, and Harry’s hips lifted toward the touch just a bit. Eager, this Auror. But so shy about it.

“Did you like it, _mon coeur_?” 

“Mm hmm,” Harry hummed, tight-lipped. 

Harry’s back tensed a bit before he’d replied, and Draco silently cursed Muggles and their rather conservative sex culture. Harry probably didn’t notice he’d somewhat begged to be fucked a few moments ago, and Draco deemed it wise to not mention it.

Now that he thought about it, Harry hadn’t explored Draco’s ass at all, either. He definitely liked watching Draco finger himself. And the middle of the night dildo voyeurism. But he hadn’t tried to touch Draco there at all.

“Want to do more of that?” Draco wrapped one long arm around Harry’s shoulders, and the other around his head, hiding the other man's face. Visual scrutiny didn’t make uncomfortable questions easier.

“Yeah.” Harry whispered, barely audible. Draco squeezed his arms tight around Harry and buried his face in the mop of black hair. 

Salazar’s fucking sphincter, to be approaching thirty years old, one of the most powerful public figures in wizarding Europe, to have _died and returned_ , and _still_ be afraid to ask someone to touch you how you’d like…

Draco swallowed thickly, blinking back tears.

“I love you, Harry.”

————————————

Hermione picked the little cubes of chicken out of her soup. They tasted like fake adulthood and resignation. And there wasn’t even a greedy ginger cat howling at her feet for the little bits of meat.

Just a witch, and a laptop, and a bowl of soup on a Friday night. Terrible.

She could text Luna or Pansy, maybe. But how awkward would that be? Let us all exchange notes about Draco Malfoy’s cock. Then again, maybe they already did. 

The soup was getting cold, so she picked it up and drank the remaining broth with a faint grimace. Not much of a dinner.

In theory, at least, she could just hop over to Wheal Elvan. Draco and Harry would be there. The sexual tension in that house was _thick_ , but that wasn’t exactly a bad thing. She’d absolutely end up late for a project meeting in the morning, though.

Maybe Ron was at the Burrow, and she could pop in and see him. Probably get a real dinner, too. If Bill and Percy weren’t moved into their houses yet, there might be some secluded beds to test.

Yep, dinner and a go.

—————————————

_Seer dreams were always unique, because he couldn’t control the point of view at all. In this case, his gaze was on the Rusalka girl. She stood next to him on a sunny sidewalk lined with shops._

_Her head of glossy chestnut hair only came up to his hip, and she looked up at him and grinned. A child’s goofy smile full of comically-large incisors, a half-grown canine, and a few gaps he knew would straighten out by the time she was a young woman._

_People were rushing the opposite direction they were walking. Shoulders bumped into him, and he pulled her head to his side._

_“Malu, it’s not funny,” he whispered. Her little hands reached up to grab his pinkie off his hip. With a nudge of magic like thick fur drifting underwater, his tattoo lit up._

_She giggled and kissed his pinkie, causing the black ink to turn over in a wave of jade green and winking flowers up his exposed forearm._

__**I think it’s funny, Papa.** _Her voice echoed in his head, but her lips didn’t move._ **Am I in trouble?** __

_Around them, people shouted, dropping newspapers and wrappers as they fled._

_“You’re in a little trouble, at least,_ oisillon éveillé _.” A man ran down the middle of the road screaming about the return of Voldemort. “Of all the images you could have broadcast through Diagon Alley. Why Basilisks?”_

_She shrugged and had the decency to look bashful._ **I wanted to hear Daddy speak Parseltongue.**

———————————

The Floo roared to life, and Ron surveyed the wreckage covering the kitchen table with a grimace. Mum would not appreciate the rock shards littering the surface. And the floor. And the dust drifting about the freshly-scrubbed kitchen.

Instead of red hair and voluminous skirts, a figure with voluminous hair and a red rucksack tumbled out. Hermione dusted herself off and looked around.

“What are you carving over there, Freckles?” She wandered over to the table to examine the destruction. “Looks like they let the undergrads into the dig site.”

Ron looked up from the shattered bits of quartz on the table with a frown. Getting the crystals out of the granite had taken some experimentation, but a very careful combination of Blood magic vibration and _Aquamenti_ had done a fair job. Carving the small pieces into orbs, however, was proving difficult.

“Trying to make little crystal balls out of quartz, but it’s not working.” He swept the shards into a pile and figured they’d make themselves useful somehow.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if your dad has a rock tumbler out in the shed,” she replied. “Smells like a hospital in here. Antiseptic.”

Ron nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, Mum cleaned the hell out of the kitchen and took off for Shell Cottage after Bill and Fleur settled in here. Something about tidying up and removing the baby-proofing spells.” He turned to watch her. “Rock tumbler?”

She nodded vigorously and set her bag down on a kitchen chair before looking about the room. Her eyes lingered on the cold oven and her shoulders drooped.

“Muggle tool. Or toy, kind of. You put rocks and grit in it, and it rolls them around till they’re shiny.” Her gaze lingered on the oven, but her attention was far away. “My dad had one in the garage when I was little. Mum gave it to him for Christmas, but then it was so loud, she made him plug it in in the garage. Took days, but the quartz came out really pretty.”

Ron looked at his mess of shattered crystal with a renewed disdain. Damned if Muggles hadn’t beaten him to a solution already. The crystal ball in the wall at Wheal Elvan hadn’t exploded because it had an entire granite outcrop as a heat sink. These little bits would probably shine up just fine if it were done over several days.

“Hermione Jean Granger, I fuckin’ love you,” Ron said, stern-faced.

She chuckled and rooted around in the icebox. “I love you, too. I take it we’re going to figure out how to tumble your rocks?”

“Might make you dinner and let you jostle my stones, at least.”

——————————————

Draco’s shoulder twitched under Harry’s cheek, and he wondered if eagles were as fitful of sleepers as humans dreaming of being eagles. Someday, he was going to ask Draco to share some memories of flying with him. For now, the idea of someone else in his head unnerved him, even though Ron and Hermione seemed to enjoy it.

Harry frowned at himself in the dark as he slid out of bed. Chosen One, who couldn’t let the man he loved into his head. Chosen One, who couldn’t say _I love you_. Chosen One, who couldn’t get the words out to ask that man to do stuff to his butt.

The Boy Who Lived to Regret It. Master of Death who didn’t know how to live. He shook his head at himself as he padded out through the living room to the ladder down to the spring. Overdramatic. 

So, maybe this level of intimacy was foreign and got under his skin. That wasn’t so uncommon. Not for somebody with his upbringing. And Draco understood.

Harry climbed part-way down the ladder, careful to keep his trousers out of the water, ruminating on he and Draco’s early similarities and vastly different outcomes.

They’d had comparably shitty childhoods and survived different sides of the same war. Why did Harry build walls where Draco threw welcoming mats? Why was Draco planning on raising kids while Harry still felt like one half the time?

Harry levitated a wooden crate up out of the water in the corner of the spring, and dispelled the Bubblehead charm from around it. It drifted above his head, and he sent it to settle on the dining table.

As he climbed, he tabulated the seemingly small feats Draco was capable of, which still made Harry balk. He eagerly shared the contents of his mind with people he loved. He wasn’t hesitant about using his ass for more than sitting. And, maybe most disconcerting to Harry, Draco told people he loved them without reservation. This, from a man who wasn’t allowed to fucking _smile_ as a child.

It had happened gradually, Harry thought, as he opened the crate and surveyed the contents. In Falk’s memories, Draco hadn’t really looked happy until the later ones. Maybe Falk had been good for him, despite sounding like a real wanker in some of Draco’s stories.

Harry shook his head and frowned. Wrong time and place to be thinking about Draco’s exes. Not while he was setting up a rather risky gift all along Draco’s table. Fuck. Draco loved this table, and Harry was going to do _this_ to it?

This was a gamble. It could very well give the impression he was mocking Draco’s middle of the night romantic date with himself. He read through the packing list and note from Millie. 

He set the paper on top of the table, folded to show the date he’d submitted the order. Hopefully, Draco would read it when he woke, and not just grab the biggest one out of the crate and club Harry to death in his sleep. _Bonus gift_ , indeed, he thought, barely wrapping his fingers around its girth before hiding it under the packing material.

No, he figured, Draco would probably withdraw before he’d lash out. But Harry would be asleep when Draco found this. Maybe he should set an alarm for dawn? Or would Draco rather have some privacy for this? Tough decision.

Harry surveyed the table, three lovely gifts suction-cupped to the surface, and sighed. Setting was important. Mood.

He _Accioed_ a thin white box out of the chimney and broke the _Glacius_ charm as he popped three chocolates out and lined them up between the other gifts. He returned the box to the chimney, and stood, arms crossed, glaring at the macabre tablescape. 

It was missing something. Something to serve as an invitation.

 _Coffee_.

————————————

Hermione stared at the ceiling of Ron’s bedroom. The same bedroom he’d had since he was a baby. Her gaze flicked to the side, and she saw him blinking, wide-eyed, at the ceiling as well. She wasn’t the only one sleepless, then.

“Ron.”

“Mm hm?”

“Does he always snore like this?”

“Mm hm.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

A series of snorts and rattles shook the walls as Arthur’s airway fought an invisible battle against itself.

“I can’t take it, Ron. I’m getting my wand.” She slid out of bed and crept over to her pile of clothes.

“Mum’ll be back in the morning. And Dad wakes pretty early. They’re gonna know you spent the night if they walk through a _Muffliato_ in the hall.”

“Bloody hell.” Hermione paused, wand poised. Another sex talk from Molly wasn’t how she wanted to spend her morning tomorrow. “Side-along to my flat?”

“Nah,” he groaned, hoisting himself up. “You really shouldn’t be Apparating into a Muggle building in the middle of the night. And it’s kind of a leap from Cardiff to Wheeze’s in the morning, what with you not having a Floo.”

“Cardiff Public Floo? It’s about a twenty-minute walk.” She shoved her feet in her jeans, eager to get away from Arthur’s uvular symphony.

Ron pulled trousers on and scratched his beard. “You’ve got the key to Harry’s flat, right?”

“...yes?” She drawled, eyebrows raised.

“Harry’s apartment with the private Floo and the big bed and nobody home…” Ron said, tugging a shirt on.

“Ronald Weasley.” She said sternly. “Are you suggesting we abuse the trust of the Head Auror and sneak into his flat to have rambunctious sex in his bed?” The irony hit her, and she added, “Without him?”

“I think I am,” Ron said with a grin. “I believe the Wizengamot has to do thorough background checks on new administrators. Maybe even home inspections.”

“Can’t have a Head Auror with an untested bed frame,” she said with a nod.

He cracked the door open and checked the hall furtively, despite the continued sawing of logs.

Ron turned around and huffed out a breath. “Pretty sure you hide extra brains in that hair, ‘Mione.”

————————————

If waking to a cold dawn could be played on a harp, it wouldn’t be a dreamy, flowing upward glissando. Nothing so angelic as that. It would be the metallic snap and tang of a broken string reverberating through the soundboard. A tension snapped so quickly, one questioned it had ever happened. Startling, annoying, but thoroughly energizing.

Harry dozed next to him on top of the duvet, bundled in his own blanket. Draco stretched quietly, as to not disturb the slumbering Auror. It looked like a good morning to run the wards, but the motivation to do so had disappeared with the owl remediation. Harry would probably refuse, anyway. Spoilsport.

Draco rolled over to watch him sleep, reaching a hand out to brush black hair off his forehead. Two weeks ago, Harry probably wouldn’t have slept through the touch. This morning, he actually looked rather peaceful. Temptingly so. Especially with the knowledge that Harry Potter generally sported an erection from dawn to waking. 

Harry’s cock and Draco seemed to have a similar routine. Rise at dawn, wait for Harry to wake up, engage in _shenanigans_ , and then fidget uncomfortably until after work when it was time for more _shenanigans_.

Harry mumbled something about tea and rolled onto his back. Draco grinned as his favorite morning companion waved a salute. 

In a week, he could slide his hand into those boxers and just _have_ him. In a week, he could wrap his lips around the head of that magnificent cock and slide down to the dawn chorus of Harry’s waking groans and…

He blew a deep breath out between pursed lips. This was why Harry slept on top of the duvet. Wandering minds lead to wandering hands lead to Azkaban. With a deep inhale came the faint scents of coffee and chocolate. _Fresh_ coffee.

With an interested harrumph, Draco slipped out of bed and padded to the living room, rounded the couch, and froze.

———————————

Ron sighed as the clock in Harry’s room flicked another minute by. It wasn’t that he enjoyed watching her sleep so much as he enjoyed not fearing for his life when he woke her up. But she’d said she had a meeting at nine, so letting her sleep till eight-thirty seemed like the edge of responsibility.

“Psst, Harpy.” He nudged her cautiously with an elbow.

“Mmmnnngh.”

“I thought Harpies could use their words,” Ron chided. “In fact, I thought they were pretty good at it.”

Hermione rolled over and squinted one eye open at him. “Harpies are just very good with their mouths.” A long, hitching yawn shook through her. “The words are just a byproduct. She licked her lips and snuggled up closer to him, a hand drifting down to his hips.

“Ah, that explains it,” Ron said with a nod. “But this little Harpy slept too late to use her talented mouth for anything but a goodbye kiss.”

Hermione grumbled and looked over at Harry’s bedroom clock.

“Well, shit,” she hissed. “I guess so.”

Ron slid out of the bed and whipped the covers off her, somewhat expecting a good stinging hex as a reaction. Instead, he earned a middle finger and a lovely view of a nude Hermione.

“I’m late getting to the store. I usually have payroll signed off by this time on Saturdays, but I got a bit distracted.”

“Fiiiine,” she whined, and scooted out toward her clothes. “This worked out pretty well, though.”

Ron nodded and headed for the bathroom. “We’ve got a week till he comes back. Might as well use it.”

“You read my mind,” she called, shimmying into jeans and a shirt.

“Dinner here tonight?” Ron hollered above the flush of the toilet.

“It’s a date!” She shouldered her rucksack and shouted over her shoulder. “Love you!”

“Love you, too, ‘Mione!”

Ron forced Harry’s toothbrush into his mouth past a giddy grin.

————————————

Draco sighed, fists firmly planted on his hips.

The dining table… The table at which he planned on feeding growing children… The table that was central to the rest of his life… had grown cocks. 

Three garishly-colored cocks, just… there. Stuck to the surface like phallic candelabras. A purple one, an indigo one, and a blue one. Oddly pretty colors together, but _cocks_. Dildos stuck to the table, just waving a jaunty _Good morning, Draco_.

And between the penile fanfare? Truffles. 

One glossy chocolate sat in front of each of the damnable dicks. As if left alone, a dildo would simply lay a truffle each day like a lurid hen in its nest. Cock coop of confections.

He circled the table warily, only mildly concerned the dildos were enchanted and might come to life and attack him. Not that it would be an unwelcome attack. Unlike Harry’s morning salute, he could actually touch these.

Tentatively, he approached the violet one at the foot of the table, closest to the bedroom. Nothing magical jumped out at him, figuratively or literally. It wasn’t at all impressive in size, but it was rather exquisitely-detailed. Intricate veins and lines decorated its length, and a terribly life-like moulded scrotum below sported ridges and wrinkles. More detailed than plenty of actual cocks, he mused.

Someone had gone to great effort in making these. An obscenely thoughtful tribute to the male anatomy. The indigo one was a touch thicker, and just a little less finely-sculpted. The blue one was a hair larger yet, and also a bit smoother. A good strategy, he thought with a shrug.

At the head of the table, where manilla folders and Auror accoutrements usually reined, sat a steaming press of coffee, a mug, and a folded paper. He waved off the coffee’s stasis charm and sat down, brow knit in confusion.

Had Pansy been here? There was no reason she couldn’t have Flooed in and set this up. It seemed more like something Luna would enjoy, but she’d never do this without asking. Pansy would… but not with Harry around. Hermione could be capable of such a feat, but she wouldn’t leave without a show.

He took a tentative sip of the coffee and hummed in appreciation. Plenty strong, but not brewed too hot. Harry did make a good cup of coffee, Draco thought, followed by the jaw-dropping realization that it had been _Harry_ who had done _this_.

The man who had yet to muster up the courage to actually discuss having sex with him had profaned his table with penises.

Settling into the chair, he surveyed the offerings. His head tilted, observing the three dildos in perfect alignment down the tabletop, the first and last not too close to the edge, nor too close to the center one. 

But those truffles. Why did each have a truffle in front of it? Could he simply take the truffles? They _were_ best when melted along a hot tongue, on the heels of a bitter drink. He sighed and took another sip, momentarily giving up on dildo divination.

The paper was nothing special. Just an ordinary Muggle piece of paper, folded in thirds with a letterhead, list, and note at the bottom.

**Striding Bull, Inc.** **  
Hand-designed and custom novelties since 2002.  
London-based, client-focused.**

****

**Order date: Oct. 1, 2007  
Shipment contains:  
ARSEnal Adventure Kit: ROYGBIV**

Draco set the paper down, pressed it firmly to the table, and inspected the dick decor with a long inhale. The sleeping man in his bed who had yet to mention anything ass-related had ordered this the day they’d been sequestered together? An entire _kit_? Merlin’s fucking man-tits. Potter the plotter had struck again.

He topped up his coffee and smoothed the creases in the paper, reading on.

**Red- Rithickulus  
Orange- Ogden’s Knob  
Yellow- Yule Log  
Green- Grindyblow  
Blue- Babbity’s Stump  
Indigo- Ilverhorny  
Violet- Vollofsmut  
*Bonus gift- see note**

Draco stopped reading again to glance around the room. The three on the table must have been the Violet, Indigo, and Blue, but where were the others?

A wooden crate with the embossed face of a snorting bull sat on the hearth. How he’d walked right by it he had no idea. Possibly distracted by dildos stuck to the table. Scowling, he sipped the admittedly perfect coffee and read the bottom of the paper.

***Special note:  
Harry! Congrats from me and Roger and the kids! You’re going to be such a great Head Auror!  
I made something special for the occasion. Let me know what you think!**

**Best wishes,  
Millie**

_Millie_. _Striding Bull_. Draco stifled a snort, and carried his coffee over to the fireplace to inspect the crate. So Millicent Bulstrode had gone out into the world to plunder all the asses she could. Even married a bloke named _Roger_ , of all damn things.

The lid of the crate was loose, which obviously meant Harry wanted him to dig through it. It seemed not much digging needed to be done. Four increasingly-larger dildos greeted him immediately, nestled in a bed of straw-colored shredded paper. A preposterous rainbow of cock. A realistic rainbow, granted. They had to have been modeled after actual men.

Especially the largest specimen. The cardinal-red one fit in his hand quite nicely, he noticed. A bit familiar, even. 

Realization hit him in a soft gasp. It was Harry Potter’s fucking dick. He pulled it out and set it in his lap as he sat on the hearth.

The dawn light was a bit dim, but he held the dildo up for inspection. Damned if that wasn’t Harry in silicon. The logistics were baffling, but the possibilities made his cock twitch.

Slowly, his fingers traced the length, memorizing the small details in the shaft, skimming over the head. Intricacies of the man he couldn’t actually touch yet. He grazed the tip of it over his lips, wondering how Harry’s skin felt in comparison to the imitation. His mouth traced down the shaft, tongue darting out along the base and small wrinkles and ridges therein. His lips nipped at the surface as he rubbed his chin down the base.

A cough from the bedroom startled him, and he put the dildo back in the crate. It fit nicely back into its place next to the other three. But where was this “Bonus gift”?

Draco’s fingers slid through the shredded filler paper and hit something solid and plastic-wrapped. It slid easily out from under the others, but the plastic bag around it crinkled loudly in the stone room. It was thicker than the red dildo, and felt harder. Heavier. With a furtive glance toward the bedroom, he pulled the bag open slowly and extracted it.

A piece of paper fluttered out. **Auror Borealis**.

He smiled at the name as he held the lovely dildo up for examination. The clear material caught the light and swirled with glittering green and pink streaks. They chased each other through the shaft and swirled down the base, only to seemingly bounce the light back up radiant paths to the tip.

His new life goal had just become riding the gorgeous shining length till he came on top of it. His breath hissed in at the thought of stretching around the slick shaft and sinking it in to the hilt. Size for the sake of size hadn’t especially appealed to him, but this was sex and art and showmanship. All of which he _did_ appreciate immensely.

Draco ran his lips over the slick surface. The shiny exterior showcased the rippling light show inside as he turned it in the air. What would it feel like to have something so damned beautiful inside him?

“Your eyes are bigger than your ass.” 

Draco stifled a squawk and dropped the magnificent work of art back into the crate. The others looked rather plain now in comparison, he thought. Except the red one.

Harry leaned against the bookcase rubbing sleep from his eyes. His nipples were hard against his thin t-shirt, and his cock was wide awake inside a pair of scandalously tiny, orange jogging shorts.

“You dare doubt me, Potter?” Draco eyed the red dildo and considered trying to sneak it out of the crate, but for what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. Just… to have it, really. To touch it, and lick it, and grind it against his naked cock and-

“I think she threw that in as a joke.” Harry arched his back and stretched, giving Draco a lovely view of his stomach and the ridiculous tent in his shorts. 

He sauntered toward the kitchen, and Draco watched him, a bit self-conscious. “I didn’t get the impression it was a joke gift,” he said softly.

“Dray, be serious.” Harry huffed a laugh and busied himself with the kettle, not looking over. 

Draco wiped sweaty palms on his pajama bottoms, notably nervous. He swallowed thickly and chastised himself for his own anxiety. Harry had obviously planned this for a reason, even if he avoided talking about it.

“If you can fit that monster in your ass, I’ll… I dunno.” Harry turned to look at him, questioning his silence.

“You’ll… fuck me?” Draco held his gaze in a soft plea. “Maybe?”

“Oh,” Harry whispered, empty mug held between fingertips. “Yeah? Yeah. Oh. Okay.”

“Hard?”

The kettle whistled, and the lightning-glazed mug shattered against the floor.

———————————

Hermione prayed for a family emergency. Who she was praying to, she wasn’t sure. What kind of family emergency, she wasn’t sure, given her father’s heart attack hadn’t even warranted a call from the hospital. But _some_ kind of emergency that would get her out of this work session.

Group projects had always been the bane of her academic existence. Not because she minded being the one to do the whole project. Not really. But because she _did_ mind her group members slowing her down. Doing five people’s worth of work was no sweat. Doing it while having them offer worthless feedback and lie through their teeth about contributing made her break out in a clammy mess.

They were nice enough, if a bit young. Most of them were five years younger than her, which didn’t seem like much in the grand scheme of things until they started talking. The two men hadn’t even pretended to be useful, having sequestered themselves in a corner to discuss football. The other two women seemed like solid students. Just… young.

Janine reminded her of a subdued, Muggle Pansy Parkinson. Her dark eyebrows were just as pointed, but rose in good humor rather than quirking in sarcasm. Scarlet lips frequently spread wide in a toothy grin, never pursed in wry disdain.

Cassandra looked like she was accidentally auditioning for a role as any manner of spring or fertility goddess. Her blond hair wound around the top of her head in an intricate braid, with smaller French braids feeding up into it from the nape of her neck. Artificial flowers were stuck throughout the woven crown.

The hairstyle was apparently due to her role in a friend’s wedding later that afternoon, and she’d spent her early morning hours in a salon. It did explain the two enormous cups of coffee she’d arrived with and summarily guzzled as if winning a bet.

The talk of weddings had set the two women to chatting, and their easy banter lulled Hermione into a productive groove of scrutinizing the ever-loving hell out of the citations for their project. So many small errors. Delicious little errors to snuff out one by one like gnats.

It was tedious, and allowed her mind to wander while her eyes skimmed. The flowers in Cassandra’s hair were artificial, so their meaning would be sarcastic. There was a white peony, baby’s breath, and violets. If she wore that hairstyle, with the braid, into the Ministry, what would it mean?

A punctuation error in a citation caught her eye, and she scribbled a note over it in red pen. The braid would let everyone know about her men. Would three small braids up the back to the crown be even more specific? Perhaps. The satin flowers would mean… immodesty, lack of dignity, and… whatever the sarcastic meaning of baby’s breath was. Probably something maternal. 

She grinned at the idea of actually wearing that hairstyle into a wizarding function. It practically screamed _“Put dicks in me”_.

“Hermione, do you want to crash the reception with me?” Janine’s brown eyes sparkled with mischievousness. “Free booze, cake, and men.”

Cassandra nodded encouragingly. “John’s rugby team will be there, and they’re mostly single. And fit.”

Hermione hesitated, lips parted, and Janine swooped in. “Oh, I’m sorry, Hermione. I don’t know why I assumed you wanted to go out on the prowl with us. You’re seeing someone, right?”

“Uhm, yeah,” she muttered, still entranced by the idea of replicating Cassandra’s Fuck-Me hair. Ron would absolutely die if she showed up to Wheal Elvan in that. Draco would probably laugh himself to a full erection. Harry would be adorably confused by it all.

“That’s nice. What’s he do?” Cassandra watched her for a response, and Hermione blinked rapidly.

“Oh. One of them owns a shoppe,” she murmured absently, more interested in the intricacy of the side braids that swept from Cassandra’s temples.

The other two women exchanged a look before leaning forward in sync. Janine bit a lip to stifle a grin. “One of them?”

Hermione felt her face fall in shock. She’d had this conversation with several Wizengamot committee members and other Ministry employees. Never any Muggles, though.

“Uhm, yeah. One of them.” She really hoped they’d drop the topic. Cassandra was shell-shocked already, and Janine looked like she was going to burst. 

Not at all like other witches. Her concern over being judged at the Ministry had ended up being absolutely unfounded, just like Draco had reassured her. Multiple older women had sought her out to discuss her braid. 

They’d gotten lunch and shared stories, and downright bonded, despite an age gap of several decades. She listened to them discuss raising children, and grandchildren, and laundry. They discussed laundry an awful lot, actually. It had felt like being surrounded by a little team of supportive grandmothers. 

“And the other…” Cassandra scoffed, leaning back in her chair. “Or is it others? Plural?” Her eyes narrowed in accusation.

Janine’s gaze flicked between them and settled on Cassandra. The humor drained from Janine’s face as she mimicked Cassandra’s hard posture.

Cassandra glared at her, and Hermione’s chest flushed with nervous prickles. Damned if she was going to sit in a library and listen to snide remarks from a Muggle in Fuck-Me hair.

“I’m done proofreading the citations. If you add any more sources, email them to me this week, and I’ll format them myself and add them in.” Hermione clipped the words out a little harshly, but didn’t regret it. Her throat tightened, threatening to turn her voice into a feeble squeak.

Her hands scooped her papers and notebook into a sloppy stack and shoved it into her rucksack, crumpling her clothes to the bottom. The clothes she’d worn to one man’s house to have sex with his best friend. While said best friend was sleeping with their mutual lover.

Fucking hell, she thought. She would never be able to have a normal social life with other students. Nobody wanted to go on double-dates with four damned people. There was no place here for what they were doing. The hell with these Muggles.

Blooming tears and warring loyalty hastened her out of the library as her thumb ran over the faint scar on her forearm. Cold air greeted her outside the doors, and she took a deep, cleansing breath.

 _Muggles_ , she thought derisively. 

——————————

Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes, elbows on the table. Godric’s gullet, why did he wish Ron was here to moderate this fight?

Draco was adorably annoyed, arms crossed, pouting in his jammies. Granted, what he was pouting about wasn’t cute. His arms dropped, and long fingers wrapped around his mug. “I’m a blasted Healer, for Merlin’s sake.”

“I know.” Harry muttered, biting his lip. 

Harry’s thumbnail picked at a crack in the glaze on the mug he’d dropped. The spell had put it back together, but the fine lines would probably be there forever. Permanent evidence of the first time Draco asked Harry to fuck him and he’d startled like a terrified virgin. Which… all things considered, wasn’t inaccurate.

“Why the bloody hell did you buy it, then?” Draco’s simmering pout had heated to a rolling boil. His teasing grey eyes turned stormy, and he seemed to be pointedly avoiding Harry’s gaze.

“I just… I figured it was going to have to happen, or that you’d want to, and if there was a way to do it and hurt you less, maybe it would be worth trying.” Harry set his glasses on the table and hid his eyes behind the hard press of his fingers.

Draco scowled at him, somehow managing to appear offended by what Harry felt was rather thoughtful consideration. He ran fingers through white-blond hair as his head turned to watch Crookshanks wander into the bedroom. His teeth worried the inside of his lip in thought, though his posture appeared to be holding back vitriol.

It had been stupid, Harry thought as he put his glasses back on. The whole fucking dildo thing. He knew Millie had used him as the largest model for years. Nobody probably actually bought it. And if they did, they probably didn’t take it for a second test drive. Not many of the women he’d dated had.

Dove-grey eyes focused on the mug in front of Harry, still avoiding his gaze. Harry wished Draco would just yell at him. The suspense was awful.

“ _Mon coeur_ , might I invite you to fuck me in the near future?” Draco said carefully, as if he were reciting a tricky spell.

Harry frowned down into his mug. The coffee had soaked through the cracked glaze inside, leaving fine lines over the white ceramic interior. Harry Potter, he thought, always breaking what he loves.

“Maybe.”

Draco’s jaw clenched, and he exhaled carefully through his nose with a slow blink. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

The cracks inside the mug mocked him. Broken, pretending to be whole. Never quite the same as before he’d dropped it.

“I hurt you.”

Draco’s brow knit in concern. “You hurt me, or I _get_ hurt? They’re different.”

Harry shook his head and finished his coffee. There was no difference if Draco ended up hurt. Like Hermione. Like the women he’d slept with who told him they’d need a week off to recover and laughed about it. Like it was some kind of compliment.

“No, _mon coeur_. You won’t hurt me again.” Draco whispered, expression blank.

Harry looked up to find Draco running a thumb over his ribs. _Over his scars._ His heart sank as his breath shuddered in, overwhelmed that Draco had sorted his own hesitation out faster than he had.

“But I could,” Harry said, worried. “Not… not like that. But I hurt Hermione.”

A wide grin and a half-snorted laugh from Draco startled and embarrassed him. “First off, Potter. No, you couldn’t. Not if I didn’t want you to. Not anymore.”

“You don’t even have a wand. I could absolutely-“

“Harry, I could summon your brain out through your nose like cream filling before you could reach your wand.” Draco smirked and licked his teeth.

A soft gag threatened to rise from Harry’s throat, and he swallowed it down. Fucking disgusting image, that was. And terrifying. And… oddly arousing. A bit exciting to perhaps not be the most powerful wizard in the room.

“The best Blood Magic Healers are also the most dangerous,” Draco said softly. “And you didn’t hurt Hermione, so much as gave her exactly what she wanted. That was on her.”

“You lectured me about it quite a bit that night with the wards.” Harry leaned back and shot Draco a challenging glare.

Draco cleared his throat and inhaled deeply. “I may have been in the wrong in blaming you.” He bit his lip, gaze intent on the center of the table. “Possibly motivated by jealousy.”

Harry flicked his hand sarcastically. “She spent the night with you. Not like you got left out.”

“I wasn’t jealous of _you_.”

Harry’s breath huffed out. If Draco wasn’t jealous of him, he was jealous of… Oh, Merlin.

“Mm hmm,” Draco hummed, watching Harry’s face carefully. “I may have been a bit jealous of her for getting _so_ much of your lovely cock.” He swirled the dregs of his cup, studying the sediment. 

“I suppose I still am. And now you’ve provided me with a rainbow-paved path to it, and yet… you dither, Harry.”

“Dammit,” Harry muttered to himself. Draco was right. Fucking indecision again.

Draco nodded with a wry smile and stood. “I’m going down for a bath. Reset the table with the Orange, Yellow, and Green dildos and make another pot of coffee. I’m not wasting time on the small ones.”

Halfway to the ladder he paused to throw his sweatshirt and pajama bottoms over a chair. A pair of white lace knickers followed, and Harry’s breath hissed in at the sight. Draco descended the ladder, and Harry turned to survey the phallic table arrangement.

“Oh,” Harry whispered. “Well, what should I do with the smaller three?”

Draco’s drawl echoed up from the spring. “I think you know _exactly_ what we’re going to do with those, _mon cochon_.”

The Head Auror squeaked behind a nervous smile.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Hairsbreadth

So close now. Stop!  
If cats and mice can play this game…

So… close…. Now, stop!  
A rainbow feast on tabletop.

Then who am I to shy away?  
Watch! Step by step, this dark ballet.

So… Close now. Stop?

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro   
*********************************

Malusha Apis Malfoy-Granger

Malu, like prophetess of old, you’re frankly, kind of spooky.  
I told them not to wrap your presents. I really, truly did.

I knew you’d know what was inside, my psychic wunderkind.  
It’s kind of nice, to speak with you sans saying.

To have needs met with no displaying.  
A silent bond for we the quiet.

While crowds begin to riot  
You and I, in glance…

We just wink…

And then deny it…

DLM 2015 Diagon Alley  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	34. Chocolate Leapfrog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dildos. Azkaban. Narcissa. Werewolf Aurors. Dreams about Animagus kids. All the things.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Auror Borealis

The day’s last light

Twixt glaring sun and moon’s soft glow.  
Illumination in the night.

The sharpest teeth know _how_ to bite.  
Unwelcome incubi, although;  
Epiphany on the morrow.

Illumination in the night.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************

Libra Rising

Let’s add them up, then. Shall we?  
Compile the lives I’ve cost this world.  
Start today. My mother dear.  
That’s one.

Dozens, at least, in red-robed fear.  
_Children_ , no less, who sob and skirl.  
Not unlike that first rally.  
There’s more.

Teachers and friends in fire’s knurl.  
Sister gone, my throne made free,  
With pledge of me, a path to clear.  
That’s all.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

“ _Circumrota_.” Ron flicked his wand at the immense drum. It churned into motion with a screech like a train made of slate and grating fingernails.

Turned out a Muggle rock tumbler wasn’t much different from an unused dragon hatchling furnace on its side. And the varying types of grit Muggles used weren’t much different from Floo powder and Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder in specific ratios, either.

Granted, it meant he couldn’t see what was happening through the sparkling midnight darkness inside the gargantuan kettle, but it sounded like it was working. He cast a quick silencing spell over the whole ordeal and made a mental note to check in on it in a few hours. No telling how fast the powders would wear down the edges of the crystals.

A niggling suspicion that mixing Floo and Darkness powders with pulverized quartz was going to result in something unseemly wormed away at him as he trotted down the stairs.

———————————

“ _Ablunguo_.” Draco enunciated carefully for Harry’s benefit, barely noticing the familiar deep rumble and abrupt slickness. His fingertips pressed against his entrance as he willed himself to relax. They slipped in easily, and he took a moment to spread them gently in preparation.

“Harry, back up. I don’t mind being on display, but I do mind showing up to Azkaban with an Auror’s nose up my ass.”

He smiled gently as Harry’s soft breath faded from the back of his thigh. It really would be a compromising way to show up at the Azkaban Arrivals desk. Nude, lubed, in a kneeling squat over empty air. Not that dignity was ample on a dining table over a kelly green dildo.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered sheepishly.

“It’s alright, _mon coeur_ ,” Draco said as he reached behind him to trail fingers up the obscenely green length. It would have somehow been less outlandish if it had been a nice, deep Slytherin green rather than this jarringly verdant shade. 

Harry didn’t seem to mind the color palette. He’d requested to watch. Closely. Very, very closely, apparently. Which was fine. It didn’t feel especially sexy, but if it helped allay some of his arse-related fears, it was more than worthwhile.

“You’re sure it’s not too big?” Harry whispered, and Draco turned around to look at him. His chin rested on the table, emerald gaze intent on the head of the dildo against Draco’s hole. His brow creased like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Or speculate on a disappearing act, more like.

“For the… what, sixth time? Yes, I’m sure.” Draco nudged the tip against his opening and let out a deep breath, relaxing against the pressure. The head slid slowly in, and he heard a soft gasp behind him.

A soft hum trickled through Draco’s nose as the crest of the head slid over his prostate. An involuntary tightening and twitch followed the pleasurable jolt.

His hips hitched to drag it back across, and the timbre of Magnus’ voice trickled through his mind. He huffed a breath in surprise. A rather inconvenient sensory memory.

Harry’s voice was soft behind him. “How _much_ does it hurt?”

Draco rested his hands on his thighs, still fighting the urge to grind down onto the dildo. The texture was too perfect to just sit. But, patience.

He hummed briefly in thought. “A tiny bit on the way in, but nothing after that. This is about what I’m used to.” 

He glanced back at Harry, whose chin was still on the table. The man was studying him like a sculptor, and it was a little flattering, really. Much better than the wide-eyed panic that had hopefully run its course.

“Does it feel _good_ , though?” Harry’s head rolled to the side, brow furrowed in skepticism.

Draco smiled. He was cute like this. Unguarded. Interested. Engaged in something new and visceral. Rather similar to watching him eat, Draco realized with a sigh. Maybe this would become his favorite hobby. Tantalizing Harry Potter with new modes of physicality.

“It would feel good if I moved. Or if I were hard and stroking. Just sitting like this, though? No, not really.”

Harry swallowed thickly, and Draco simply waited. His thoughts drifted to being in front of a classroom. Quite a few similarities between teaching Dark Arts and Arse Arts. Both were part intrinsic, part trained. Both required some tolerance for pain and a fair amount of patience. Both were incredibly rewarding. Both were wildly unknown to Harry.

“ _Mon coeur_ , I’m going to move on to the… ‘Yule Log’, unless you object.” Millicent Bulstrode was no poet, but damned if she didn’t know cock.

His fingers wrapped around the saffron-yellow length as he leaned forward and withdrew. It was no small member, this one. A rather round, blunt head, as well.

“Okay,” Harry whispered. “Are you sure it’s not-“

“Harry," Draco said sternly, "ou will know when it’s too big by my subtle saying that it’s too big and then ending the demonstration.” It was more sarcasm than he’d intended, and he turned to apologize. Harry’s eyes rolled up to meet his gaze.

Harry sat up and opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. He was too quiet for Draco’s comfort.

“Do you want to watch from the front?” Draco offered, tongue darting across his bottom lip. “This one might be more exciting.”

Still silent, Harry moved to a chair to Draco’s side and settled in. Not before Draco noticed the tent in his trousers, though. Relief coursed through him. Harry looked mildly terrified, but at least he found it arousing.

“You don’t have to keep your trousers on, you know.” Draco nodded to Harry’s lap and winked. “I might like to watch something, too.”

Harry mustered up a weak smirk. “If you make it to the orange one, I’ll take them off.”

“A challenge!” Draco barked, settling himself over the golden length. The blunt head wouldn’t be great fun on the way in, but fantastic once seated. Again, he relaxed as he let his weight spread him open around the tip.

It was an abrupt stretch, and he swallowed the hiss of his breath as not to startle Harry. The wide head pulled a soft moan from him as it passed inside. His hips tilted back, drawing it just slightly forward, just perfect. Fingertips on the table kept him upright while his other hand wrapped around his own length. 

His eyes drifted shut as he moved, mind blank, simply enjoying the sensation. The room felt distant as he focused on his smooth fist sliding over his cock, and the slick pressure gently thrusting under him. Only his soft panting breath echoed through the still room.

A bead tricked down his length, and he spread it as he stroked. Tense weight built deep in his hips, urged on by the steady press and release inside him.

“Slow down.” Harry’s whispered words startled Draco out of his daze, and he turned. He’d kept his trousers on, but snuck a hand inside.

Draco smirked. “Why?” He’d been having a rather nice time. And the dildo in the box under his bed was destined for the bin. Despite its unfortunate name, the ‘Yule Log’ was far more pleasurable. 

“Maybe I’ll go ahead and come.” He let his eyes drift shut, hips catching a slow rhythm again. “I certainly could…” 

His eyes popped back open as Harry’s chair scraped across the floor. Draco assumed he was going to undress and join him, but he walked away toward the bedroom. Confused, Draco hesitated, teasing at the beginning threads of an orgasm.

Harry reappeared with something wadded and tucked under his arm. He wandered to stand uneasily at the head of the table, weight shifting foot to foot. The orange dildo sat stuck to the table a foot in front of him, and he ran tentative fingertips along it while Draco watched.

He pulled the satin skirt from under his arm and set it on the table with a furtive glance to Draco. And the three truffles.

“Are you setting a trap, Auror?” Draco asked indignantly, sitting up straight and taking the yellow dildo’s full length. Harry’s gaze drifted to the disappearing golden shaft, and Draco wiggled his ass demonstrably. “You’ll have to do better than that. _Chat échaudé craint l'eau froide_ , you know. Twice shy and all.”

Harry grinned, shoulders finally easing, and Draco sighed at the sight. He’d been so pitifully tense the whole time. A vast departure from his eager, piggish self.

“Hmm…” Harry stroked his stubble and pretended to think. “I’m not making you any more coffee. And I’m not giving you extra chocolate. What else is there?” He made a show of looking around the room as his palm slid down his trousers to press a hard line down the length of his cock. “Do _you_ see anything you like, Draco?”

Draco let his gaze linger on Harry’s hips before drifting up his lovely chest to his equally enticing lips. “Mm hmm,” he hummed. “I might see something I like, but it’s hard to tell. It’s currently hidden under a pile of dirty laundry.”

Harry huffed a laugh, but quickly sobered as the heat in Draco’s gaze melted into him. He smirked, clicked his tongue, and patted the table next to the orange dildo between them.

Draco glared at him, fighting a smile. “Did you just call me like a Kneazle?”

“No. Maybe. A little,” Harry grinned as he clumsily yanked his way out of his t-shirt. “I guess to call an eagle, I just hold my forearm out, right?” He extended his arm to shoulder height, elbow bent, with his forearm flat.

Draco cocked his head and examined him. It wasn’t an unappealing perch. He rose up off the yellow dildo, withdrawing it as his knees slid forward. Harry’s forearm was about the right thickness. And warm. And he was strong enough to hold an enormous eagle. It was actually rather appealing.

“Please don’t climb on my arm,” Harry said nervously, dropping it to his side.

“No, not today.” Draco shook his head as his hands crept up to Harry’s waistband. “But you have laid out some lovely bait here.” 

His fingertips drifted down over hard flesh, and he swallowed an eager whimper as a low groan fell from the man in front of him. Harry watched him patiently, lip between his teeth as Draco hummed a soft tune. 

“Hmm… Should I take the decoy here?” Draco tapped the orange dildo between them. “Or the live bait?” He gripped Harry’s hard length in both hands, base to tip.

Harry’s breath fell in a groan, and hissed back in. “Fuck, Draco.”

Harry’s hands fumbled with his button and zipper, finally springing free. If there were pants under his trousers, Draco didn’t see them. Bold choice, especially with how badly he wanted to wrap his fingers around Harry’s naked cock. 

Harry’s t-shirt suddenly obscured his view of Draco’s favorite phallus, draped carelessly over it like a huge, throbbing coat hook. He coyly walked fingers across the tabletop toward the hidden cock, but Harry snatched his hand up and held it tight.

“Not so fast, Dray.” Harry looked up at him with that damnable smirk, head tilting back to catch his gaze. “I believe you have a sample of… ‘Ogden’s Knob’ first.”

Draco rolled his eyes down at him. Millicent was getting a thesaurus for Yule. And a very nice hand-drawn card. Possibly dinner.

He examined the orange dildo. Not too far off in color from the little shorts Harry had started the day in. An alarming shade. Not quite a warning, but a caution. And it truly was a thing to be approached with careful consideration.

The head wasn’t so large, but the shaft thickened considerably before tapering down to the base. A sustained stretch in comparison to merely fitting the broad head of the last one in. It was… not small.

“ _Mon cochon_ ,” he said softly, eyes on the bobbing orange length as he tapped it. “I’m not going to lie. The last one was large. This one is a bit intimidating.”

Harry studied him, teeth nipping the inside of his own cheek as he thought. “Would a distraction help?” Earnest green eyes looked up at him while an eager tongue wet his lips.

Eyes narrowed, Draco nodded warily. It may or may not be useful, but he was more interested in what Harry had in mind.

Grinning, Harry popped the dildo off the table and stuck it closer to himself. “Come here,” he beckoned, hands sliding up Draco’s thighs to his hips. Hot, rough hands slid around to his lower back and pulled him closer, knees spreading wider.

Draco looked down at his own erection, the garish orange toy, and Harry’s shirt-covered length. “This is a lovely threesome you’ve arranged.” 

He leaned his face down into Harry’s hair, drawing a deep breath. His hands rubbed Harry’s upper arms, soaking in their warmth. Harry’s chin tilted up, and his lips caught Draco’s in a chaste kiss. Draco leaned down for more, but Harry’s hand on his chest stopped him.

“Hold on,” he murmured, licking his lips.

Floral-printed satin drifted over Draco’s cock, and he shivered as it settled. Harry’s hands wound the fabric around Draco’s waist, hastily tying a knot in the hanging cobalt trim.

“ _Mon coeur_ , you do set a lovely-“ he gasped as Harry’s hand wrapped around the head of his cock, satin sliding against his skin.

Harry hummed in approval at his sudden silence. “I’ll take care of this, you mind the cock under your ass. And then,” he stroked his thumb over the tip of Draco’s erection, making him moan softly, “you can touch me.”

Draco’s hips thrust forward into Harry’s slick grip. “Bossy Auror,” he whispered. He’d intended it as a challenge, but the rush of arousal through his body stole the edge from his voice.

His fingertips reached down to position the thick orange length against his entrance, slicking it along his crack before pressing down. The wrinkled skin objected briefly to the intrusion, and he blew out a long breath.

The warm fist running over his cock urged his hips to thrust forward, despite his downward urgings. “Too much, _mon cochon_ ,” he whispered, and moved Harry’s hand to his waist. He looked up to Draco’s face, and their mouths met as Draco slowly sank down, smothering a deep groan against Harry’s lips.

A small whimper fell from Draco as he stretched around the dildo. He slid his arms under Harry’s armpits, hands on his shoulder blades, pulling him closer. Harry’s tongue skirted Draco’s bottom lip, seeking without demanding, and Draco opened to him.

Draco’s breath shuddered in as he rested, feeling the pressure inside him. His cock felt painfully hard below the teasing satin, and any movement would only urge his body to a faster climax.

Harry’s lips worked against his, desire flowing between them as Draco fought to stay still. Hot, calloused hands slid from Draco’s waist to his upper back, nude chests pressed together.

“ _Fuck_ , Harry,” he whispered against the other man’s lips, hips tilting forward subtly. A needy whine trickled from Draco’s nose even as he clutched Harry close.

Harry pulled back from the kiss to look at him. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

His lips grazed across Draco’s jaw, nipping their way to his neck. Draco swallowed thickly and offered his neck to Harry. “Move for me, Dray.”

Draco’s hips tensed and rose, the girth stretching him as he lifted up, and relaxing as he lowered carefully back down. It was too much and almost enough.

It was everything and everywhere. The burning stretch of movement and gut-deep pressure inside him. Harry’s lips on his collarbone that hardened into sharp teeth against the skin. Harry’s hot, tight fist through the satin. His hair against Draco’s cheek, scent overwhelming him. In a rush of pleasure, he clutched the other man to him as his cock throbbed and released. 

A second hand slid under the skirt and cupped him, warm and rough on the delicate skin, and he gasped.

Eyes wide, hands pulling back to shove him away, Draco tried to yell. 

“Harry, don’t-“ A loud crack cut him off.

His voice disappeared as the hands and teeth jerked away with the table. Body in free fall, he tried to get his bearings and failed. A blur of empty fields and gray waves shuddered around him. Fog. Clouds. Drifting black robes with empty hoods.

His body fell, knees slamming against a slimy stone floor as bolts of pain shot through his legs. A cold wind skittered over his damp skin, still flushed from climax. The gust smelled of sea spray and salt. Between drafts, the stagnant air wafted scents of ancient stone, wet iron, and pain.

Azkaban.

————————————

Harry tripped and fell, landing ass-first on a stone floor, dick bobbing awkwardly. His hands shifted as he tumbled, but not in time to catch him, and his shoulders crashed into a wall. He shook his head and marveled that he hadn’t concussed himself on the floor or wall.

The rough stone wall scraped down his bare back, and he winced. His t-shirt hung from his deflating cock like a sad, limp balloon. He looked at his still-outstretched hands as if they could explain his situation.

But maybe they could. He’d been kissing Draco. Then biting Draco. And stroking Draco while he came. And cupping his balls, which were so warm against his hand, and… 

There it was. _Fuck._

Of course he’d fucked this up. Circe’s cantankerous cunt, this was bad. Draco was going to flay him, Heal him, and flay him again.

He sighed and licked the damp spot on his hand while he took in the room. A smallish office. Gray block walls made of rough-cut stone. Not unlike Ron’s new houses, but less refined. 

Weak _Lumos_ torches decorated the corners, casting just enough light to read by, but not enough to truly be comfortable. A large, but very bland desk sat in the middle, with two wooden chairs in front of it. The fireplace behind it was cold, a draft coming down the chimney. Another private Floo, by the bowl of powder on the mantle.

It was a little like Robards’ office before Harry had moved his furniture into it. _His_ office, he thought. He wiped his palms off on his jeans and stood, tucking his neglected cock in, zipping up, and wrangling himself into his shirt. 

Damned lucky being transported with his clothes. Unlike Draco, who…. Where the fuck was Draco? Whatever transportation spell the Ministry used had certainly felt like Apparation, so why hadn’t they landed together?

He spun in a circle, looking for either an artfully tousled head of blond hair or a riotous floral skirt, and found neither. Why was Harry in an office, and where the _fuck_ had they taken Draco?

Panic shot hot darts through his chest as he made for the door. With a backward glance, he looked at the surface of the desk and the placard on top.

**H. Potter, Head Auror**

_Double fuck._ It made sense the Head Auror would have an office in Azkaban. It was an extension of the DMLE, for all intents and purposes. 

Surprise Azkaban office. Surprise Bats Stadium box. What other surprises awaited the Head Auror?

He opened the door to a mob of red robes in the hall.

——————————

Draco’s teeth chattered, and he bit a knuckle to stop the sound. His tongue traced the creases in his skin as his lips formed a seal and sucked against the intrusion.

It was an honest mistake, he tried to remind himself. Harry didn’t mean to do it. His throat tightened, and he suppressed a sob as he repeated the mantra in his head. Harry didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t mean to.

The latticed iron cot was no warmth, but at least it was dry as it bit into his back. Why was Azkaban so _damp_? Like a doused-out rainforest.

He was naked, save for a semen-stained skirt, and he was cold, and hungry, and alone, and scared, and maybe panicking a little, but that was all okay, because Harry didn’t mean to do this.

He shook out his numbing hands and tucked them in his armpits, fighting the rising full-body tremor and tears against his lids.

It would be fine, because Harry didn’t mean to do this, and maybe he could even fix it.

It would be fine, because even though he didn’t say it, Harry loved him.

It would be fine, because he hadn’t done a single fucking thing wrong.

It would be fine, because he trusted that man more than he feared the Ministry.

It would be fine, because he was here for falling in love with a man.

Again.

——————————

“Whoa, you got here fast, Potter!” Janice hollered over the noise of the crowd in the hall. She waved her hand, mobile screen a garish white streak through the clammy air.

“I… yeah,” Harry said, stalling as he looked over the familiar faces. Adams, Janice, most of the team from the Manor investigation. “What’s up?”

His ward bracelet thrummed against his hip, and he glanced down. 

**Parole Breach** scrolled around the band repeatedly, and he stuffed the hand deep in his pocket.

“I seriously _just_ texted you,” Janice said, eyes narrowed at him as she pocketed her mobile.

Harry patted himself down self-consciously, avoiding checking the state of his erection. Why was this team expecting him to walk out of the Head Auror office in Azkaban? How the fuck did they know he was on his way?

Adams looked up from this mobile skeptically. “Who did you get to cover Malfoy on such short notice?”

“Oh, uh…” Harry stammered. “I tried to side-along him, and I guess we got separated. Could you see if he’s here somewhere?”

Adams shrugged and smoothed both hands down that shit hairdo of his. “Yeah, his Trace probably sent him to the holding cells. Do you want me to bring him to the scene?”

Anxiety curled in a tight knot in Harry’s gut. Everyone knew why they were here except for him. They all thought he’d arrived intentionally, not that he’d shown up because he’d been cupping Draco’s balls in his hand while he dug his teeth into the groaning man’s shoulder. 

_Fuck_ , it had been so fucking good right until he’d ruined it. Arousal poured through him, and he shook it off.

“What do you think?” Harry asked, hoping they’d elaborate and fill in the gaps for him.

Janice looked to Adams before she spoke. “I mean, given that we just interred his sister, I don’t think he needs to see his dead mum.”

———————————

It was going to be fine, because in fourteen years, it was fine.

Right now, it was cold, and damp, and miserable, and absolutely fucking mortifying. But in fourteen years, he had Harry and children and the platform and rings.

Wedding rings? He hadn’t thought about the rings in a while. They didn’t match, but were definitely from some kind of set.

In fourteen years, he had Harry, and rings, and kids, and a family, and so the heavy, wet air leaching the warmth from his bones didn’t matter. It was temporary.

Unless his brain was a liar.

Unless he wasn’t really a Seer.

Unless he was like Bella.

Unless he was crazy.

Unless he was a Black, through and through.

“Oh, little Blackblood,” he whispered to himself.

————————————

“Sure thing, boss,” Adams said with his trademark shit-eating grin.

Harry nodded him over to the side of the group, out of earshot. “I didn’t warn him before I Apparated. I just grabbed him and popped out,” Harry lied. “He’s not dressed, and probably terrified. Tell him I’m sorry?”

Adams’ grin vanished, a bristling protectiveness flowing in. “Yeah, sure. Anything else?” His posture straightened and the smirk dropped from his face.

“Text Councilwoman Granger and tell her to come over. He trusts her. Tell Malfoy I chose you for this.”

Adams nodded sternly, and Harry watched him, confused. Adams was never serious. Adams was an absolute fuckwit with little regard for professional behavior. Why did he act like he’d chugged a pint of Sober-Up after being handed bodyguard duty?

Harry sighed and turned back to the crowd. Adams might not be competent, but he wasn’t a danger to Draco. Draco could kick his ass if the need arose. Hell, Draco Malfoy could apparently kick the Head Auror’s ass if he wanted to, Harry thought, remembering his earlier disgusting description of lobotomizing him.

“Janice, fill me in.”

———————————

_He circled over the cove, watching a juvenile osprey struggle with its catch, wings beating against the lapping waves. The fish had to weigh half of what the young bird did. Draco could carry it easily, but the youngling didn’t want his help. He never did._

_On the beach, a plaid blanket was laid out. Next to it stood a man with red hair, watching the osprey intently. Ron, Draco realized, wishing he could make the dream focus on him. Ron walked to the edge of the water, hand shading his eyes as he watched the osprey._

_Feathered wingtips etched panicked helixes in the air as the little raptor tried to catch air and failed. Draco circled lower, chirruping out an admonition. It had been a beautiful dive the osprey had accomplished, but damned if he didn’t always have eyes bigger than his wings._

_The osprey screeched back at him petulantly. Stubborn little_ volaille _. He was going to lose his catch if he had to shift, talons turning into useless human toes._

_Draco spiraled down and braced himself for a splash landing in front of the other bird. A round golden eye glared at him as he skidded to a stop, and a needle-sharp curved black beak rattled a warning. Draco shifted in a melting of feathers and flow of skin, running with goosebumps as the cold water sank into him._

_Feet kicking to keep his head above water, he raised a hand up under the osprey’s catch, lifting it into the air. He’d intended for the bird to leave its quarry and take off, but it held its prey tight, talons clutching and working into the fish’s flesh as Draco held them both._

_“I’ll carry it in, Bryn.”_

_The osprey hissed and nipped at his open hand, and Draco rolled onto his back to lazily swim up to the beach. It wasn’t so far, and he knew the waters well. Ron would pull him in if a current caught him._

_He set the fish and its attached captor in the middle of his chest, making a raft of himself. They osprey spread its wings and tried to take off in a flurry of angry flapping, feathers buffeting Draco’s face. Unsuccessful, it settled itself into a pouting crouch on top of the fish._

_“This is very cute, Dobrynya,” he chided, feet churning water behind the testy bird as he swam. “Uncle Magnus is going to love hearing about how you were too stubborn to pull out of a dive that could have drowned you.” He reached a thumb up to stroke the feathered head. “And then you snuggled up on Papa’s chest like a little hatchling and got carried to-”_

_A sudden weight sent him crashing underwater, and he clutched his chest where the fish had been as he kicked back to the surface with a gasp. Indignant black eyes under soaked chestnut hair glared at him, lips turned down in a frown._

_“Papa, no!” he whined, paddling next to him. “He won’t let me chase a Snitch till I can pull up on dives!”_

_“Rightly so,” Draco said with a hum, drifting onto his back, lazily kicking to swim up to the beach. “Maybe after you turn eight and you can-“_

_His words were cut off by a rush of cold sea water in his mouth and up his nose as a little hand shoved his forehead under. He surfaced, snorting and gasping, to see a flurry of feathers take off, talons empty._

_Stubborn hatchling._

———————————

“Slinky Malinky long-legs!” A canvas cart rumbled over the uneven stones of the hall, coming to stop in front of his cell. “I told ye ta stay away.”

“Oh,” he replied vacantly. “I guess I didn’t listen, Rhoda.”

“Aye, well, don’t blame ye. Want yer mum’s post, then? Or shall I give it tah yer dah?”

“What?” Draco sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Why wouldn’t you give Narcissa’s post to her?”

“Oh, child,” she crooned softly. “Ye don know, then.”

Draco’s brow knit in confusion as he shook his head more solidly.

“I’m afraid she’s passed on, love.” Rhoda’s blue eyes watered, and she blinked against the forming tears.

She looked like a Weasley, Draco thought, waiting for her words to process. She looked like someone who came to comfort the undeserving.

“Narcissa is dead?” Draco’s voice came out a pinched whisper through the cinched pain in his throat.

“Aye, son. They found her this morning. Peaceful-like, though.” Rhoda’s soothing tone washed past him, not sticking.

“Thank you,” he choked out. “I’ll take her post, I guess. And tell the Head Auror I’m here if you see him in the halls.”

“Most certainly will, child.” She slid a wad of paper through the bars and trundled on, cart rattling over the blocks as she walked.

Draco rolled off the cot and snatched the bundle up. A Daily Prophet in a tight wad was all Narcissa had to look forward to today. Or would have had.

He snapped the string and spread the paper out flat and chuffed an amused laugh at the front page headline.

**ELDER BAND VIGILANTES TO FACE TRIAL**

It would be okay, because Harry loved him. Even if he didn’t say it. Even if he never said it.

——————————

Harry looked around Narcissa’s cell, grateful they’d removed her body before calling him. He didn’t know forensics terribly well yet, and was beyond biased against her after the trial.

It was a spartan affair. A cot with a thin mattress, blanket, and pillow. A few notebooks. Some old newspapers and magazines. A few dried flowers, mostly roses. A hairbrush.

The only outlier was a vibrant gift basket. A glaring reminder of the outside world in this microcosm of grey. The wicker basket was oddly familiar, as if he’d seen or held it before. Full of apples, on a table. He shook his head.

Inside the basket, there were banal items one woman would send another if she didn’t know her well. Scented lotion, a bundle of wilting daffodils, a bottle of Muggle hair oil, a pair of thick, knitted woolen socks, and on top… a half-eaten muffin.

 _”Still just muffins and burnt daffodils,”_ Draco had said about the crystal ball.

Harry scanned for any hidden spells or charms, and came up empty-handed. The cell smelled of damp rock dust and sea salt, but under that was a familiar scent of cinnamon and cloves.

On a hunch, he picked the muffin up by the paper and stuffed it in his pocket.

——————————

“I’m going to get clothes from the bedroom over there,” Draco pointed toward the bedroom for Adams’ benefit, “and then bathe over there.” He pointed the other direction toward the ladder down to the spring.

It was unnecessary condescension on Draco’s part, but defensiveness prevented vulnerability from setting in. Thus far, Adams hadn’t said a word about the table full of dildos or the skirt or the stains. He was either incredibly open-minded or dumb as a box of rocks.

Adams shrugged and took the chair at the foot of the dining table, attention on his mobile. “So long as you don’t have an escape hatch or a wand, have at it, mate. Granger says she’ll be Flooing in as-“

Green flames shot forcibly out of the fireplace, followed by an inferno of curls and righteous indignation. “What the bloody hell happened, Draco?!”

Her outrage punched through his defenses, suppressed grief gushing out in a widening deluge. Tears welled as he watched her dust herself off.

Her forehead thudded against his chest, and he clutched the mound of curls tight against him while he buried his face in the top of her head. Hermione squeezed him to the point of breaking, and a sob wrenched from his throat.

“I don’t know, _ma chatte_ ,” he whispered with a sniffle.

“I would say I’m sorry, Draco.” She looked up at him, gold-flecked eyes intense. “But I’m not.”

He nodded, lips pursed in a bitter smile. “I know.”

“I’m sorry… that you didn’t have a mother to lose…” she said softly, lacing her fingers through his as she pulled back, their hands joined at their sides.

His throat clicked as he swallowed past the tightness. “Thank you.”

His hand dropped from her grip, and her finger swiped under each of his eyes. “Bed?”

Stifling a whimper, he nodded and followed her to the bedroom.

——————————————

One cot stood in the middle of the Azkaban morgue. A single corpse in a room that could easily hold a hundred. Why the prison had ever needed such a large room to contain the deceased was better left to contemplation than realization.

Feeble light cut shafts through a series of high windows, providing ample dark space for an Auror’s imagination to run wild.

The crumbling muffin burned like a comet against his hip. He was desperate to be rid of it, and he would be soon enough. He’d know those muffins anywhere. 

The DMLE required the Head Auror to sign off on any deaths deemed natural causes within the walls of Azkaban. A reasonable precaution, really. “Natural” causes could be anything.

Harry stepped up to the shrouded cot and took a deep breath. It wasn’t that he was squeamish around the dead. Not really. But he was certainly wary of Narcissa Malfoy, even after declared dead.

With a strained gulp, a deep breath, and a flick of his wrist, the sheet snapped back to reveal the top half of the body. She didn’t jump up and screech at him immediately, so he relaxed just a bit. Her hands lay next to her on the cot, and he turned her right palm over to inspect her fingertips. Sticky.

He bit his lip and examined her face, fully prepared to make a run for it if he saw a twitch. Nothing, though. He held his breath and rested a finger against her upper lip. It was cold to the touch, which he found oddly comforting. 

With a grimace, he pulled her lip up to expose her teeth. Remnants of the muffin stuck in her gumline and between her teeth.

He slid the sheet back over her, and turned to leave, wordlessly Vanishing the muffin out of his pocket.

———————————

“No, he actually hates me now, Draco.”

Hermione nuzzled her face into his armpit as they lay entwined, denim against slick floral satin, on top of the duvet. The Kneazle was a steady, strumming purr on his belly.

“He doesn’t hate you, _ma chatte_. He’s just scared you’re going to take him back to your flat and feed him kibble.”

Hermione reached out to pet Crookshanks, and he leaned away. “See?! He hates me.”

“He hates being left alone and eating cat gruel. Can you blame him?”

Hermione reached out to scratch Crookshanks’ head, and he slid off the opposite side of Draco’s stomach to avoid her touch. With a flick of his tail, he sashayed to the foot of the bed and hopped down, headed for the living room.

Her knee hitched up over Draco’s hip as she wrapped an arm around him, and he relaxed into her. The few minutes they’d spent exchanging dysfunctional memories of absentee parents had been disgustingly comforting. 

The parentless adults, he thought. But now one of his was well and truly gone.

“My parents haven’t told me they love me,” she murmured against his shoulder. “Not since I Obliviated them.”

“I don’t know when mine last said it, but I’m not sure they ever knew what the words meant.”

“When I fed them back their memories, I didn’t tell them about magic or Hogwarts.”

Draco nipped at a cuticle on his free hand. The admission was consistent with the memories she’d shown him. “Probably safer that way, _ma chatte_.” His hand left his mouth to card through her hair, pulling his face down to her curls. “ _Je t’aime._ ”

Her hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled his knuckles to her lips. “I love you, too.”

A sharp shout from the livingroom made them both jump, and a streak of orange fur bolted into the room. In a flurry of fur and claws, Crookshanks landed on Draco’s chest, yellow eyes wide.

Draco grabbed the cat by the scruff and let a thread of Legilimancy seep into the little beast.

_WOLF, BIRD-MAN!  
RUN! A FUCKING WOLF!_

“Huh,” Draco huffed. Hermione tried to pet Crookshanks while he was restrained, but a warning growl trickled from the little monster.

“You taught my cat Leglimancy?” Hermione asked warily. “And he’s dumb enough to think there’s a wolf around?”

Draco released the Kneazle and sat up, Hermione mirroring him. “The cat already knew how to use it. I taught him to swear. And I suspect Auror Adams is hiding something.”

———————————

“Anything else I need to sign, Janice?” Harry pulled his hand out of his grease-stained pocket for the fourth time. It kept wandering there, like it was collecting evidence against him.

“I don’t think so. The Mungo’s Healer already verified a death by natural causes, so it’s pretty cut and dried. Not as much paperwork as deaths in the field.”

“Alright, then. I’ll be sure to leave my mobile on tonight.” 

Harry glanced around at the dispersing red robes, half-hoping one of them would tell him what he was supposed to do next. It was disorienting, the business of finding oneself Head Auror. No mentorship with Robards showing him the ropes. Just sudden, amorphous responsibility from any given direction. Like being dropped blindfolded into a firing range.

“Sure.” She closed the file and checked her mobile. “Are you going to keep Adams a while?”

“Uhm…” Harry ran through the potential reasons he’d want Adams to hang around Wheal Elvan. In theory, he could take a night off and… what? Go out to a pub with Ron and pretend either of them were interested in shagging someone at the bar? “I don’t see any reason to keep him, no.”

Janice perked up. “Great. I’ll take these back and file them in the morning.”

She was oddly cheered by Adams’ availability. “Are you and Adams…” He let the words hang, wary of insinuating too much.

“Oh. Yeah,” she stammered. “Kind of. Uhm… a bit seriously, actually.”

Harry huffed a laugh and smiled. “Alright, then. I’ll be sure he’s on his way.”

A scarlet blush crept up Janice’s cheeks as she mumbled her thanks and headed for the Floo.

Aurors in love. Who’d have guessed?

—————————

“Adams!” Draco belted from between the bookcases. “Are you a werewolf?”

Brown eyes rounded in sheer terror looked up. “Uhm… Werewolves can’t be Aurors.”

Hermione snuck past Draco, hot on the trail of a juicy tidbit. “That’s not an answer, Auror Adams.”

“I… Okay. Councilwoman Granger.” Adams took a deep breath and straightened against the stiff back of the wooden chair. “Yes. I am.”

Draco chuffed a surprised laugh and turned to address Crookshanks, who was only visible as a flicking tail under the edge of the bed. “You were right, _mon lionceau_!” He turned to Adams. “The cat said you smelled like a wolf.”

“Oh… Oh, fuck.” Adams slumped forward, head in his hands.

Hermione swooped in, all but clucking maternal platitudes. Draco watched, amused. Why couldn’t werewolves be Aurors? Maybe it was part of why Adams was a fuck-up, though. Harry had ranted multiple times about this Auror, in particular.

“Adams!” Draco barked, watching the man startle and getting a little thrill out of scaring an Auror. “Does your magic misfire more around the full moon?”

The man nodded hesitantly, and if Hermione Granger had been an actual terrier, her fur would have stood on end.

She took a deep breath, and Draco could nearly hear the gears grinding into motion. “Have you ever asked for a schedule to accommodate the full moon?”

Adams shook his head. “I’d get fired.”

Draco flopped on the sofa and grabbed a notebook and pen. “Why bother being an Auror at all?”

Hermione shot him a disapproving glare, and he shrugged it off. It was a legitimate question. Bitey little terrier.

“We’re protective. By nature. It’s a natural fit, even if they don’t want us in the position.”

The golden flecks in Hermione’s eyes practically glowed with future possibilities. “Adams,” she asked carefully, “how many werewolves work in the DMLE?”

Adams cowered, and Draco figured if he currently had a tail, it would be thoroughly tucked. Terrier, one. Werewolf, zero.

“About a dozen of us, total. All Aurors.”

Hermione and Draco exchanged impressed glances, but hers melted into strategic resolve.

“Have you or any of the other werewolf Aurors every smelled, heard, or tasted anything that ended up being critical evidence that human Aurors missed?”

Adams relaxed and raised his head from his hands, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Yes. Yes, ma’am. All the time. Usually blood. But we can’t exactly write that in reports.”

Hermione paced in front of the fireplace, hands on her hips. If she’d have had a proper canine muzzle, she’d have been snuffling the trail of some grande scheme, Draco thought.

“Would you and the others be willing to subject yourselves to some kind of…” Her hand rotated in the air, searching for words as she paced. “… some kind of proficiency test to make your findings submittable as evidence. Say, identifying the species and age of blood samples for verification? Like Muggle bloodhounds?”

Adams sat bolt upright in his chair, jaw hanging open. His mouth clapped shut before he dared to speak. “That’s… our favorite party game,” he said nervously. “Of course.”

“Draco,” she snapped, palm outstretched, “pen and paper.”

With a chuckle he forfeited his pen and ripped out a few pages of paper, handing her the notebook. She took them with a curt nod and disappeared into the bedroom. His gaze followed her with pride.

Adams cleared his throat, visibly dazed. “What just happened, Malfoy?”

“We will not see Councilwoman Granger the rest of the evening. And I suspect you’re going to end up with a very accommodating schedule. Possibly your own division within the Auror department.”

“Huh.” Adams’ gaze fell heavy enough to make him uncomfortable. Judging him friend or foe. “You weren’t a very good Death Eater, were you, Malfoy?”

“Literally the worst Death Eater,” Draco deadpanned. “Never even swallowed.”

———————————

Harry lingered in front of the Floo in the Azkaban Head Auror office. _His_ office, he tried to remind himself. He was responsible for oversight here. He’d be here for meetings with the warden on a regular basis. A disgusted shudder shook his shoulders. Maybe Azkaban was another Ministry institution that was due for overhaul, too.

His fingers dug into the bowl of powder on the mantle, finding a hardened mass. With an annoyed turn of his lips, he broke off a chunk and crushed it between his palms. 

How was he going to break this to Draco? Adams had texted Janice that he’d gotten him back to Wheal Elvan, but he doubted Draco had any idea what was going on. Hell, Draco might think Adams was his new parole Auror after the whole tabletop stunt.

Harry’s forehead rested against the cold stone of the mantle as his fingers sought out little lumps of powder in his hand, crushing them one by one. What if the Ministry found out he’d touched Draco? The other Aurors didn’t seem to know, but what if the Wizengamot or Shacklebolt had been alerted? Would Draco have to go through a full resentencing trial? Would Harry be starting a new career?

And if the damage was already done… no point in sleeping on top of that duvet tonight. A soft hum fell from him as pale skin and deft fingers exploring his body consumed his imagination. 

But how would he know if he was still Harry Potter, Head Auror, or Harry Potter, disgraced parolee-fondler?

The placard on the desk still had his name on it. Perhaps if the Head Auror Floo worked, that was enough of a sign. If he had to take the lobby Floo home, that would cinch it. 

_No, not my home,_ he reminded himself.

“Wheal Elvan.”

———————————————

“Another word for ‘validate’!” Hermione shouted from the bed.

Draco’s pen tapped against the sketchbook on his lap, and he turned his head to holler back, arching against the sofa arm. “Legitimize? Authenticate?”

“Thanks!”

He chuckled and settled his shoulders back down against the velvet with a wiggle. If Adams could see up his skirt, he didn’t seem to care. Werewolves were probably the sort to engage in casual nudity, anyhow.

Draco rotated the sketchbook a quarter-turn, frowning at the drawing. He looked over his bent knees to the dining table. The perspective was off. Or something about the largest dildo being the furthest away. That was it.

With a loud rip, the mediocre sketch was gone and crumpling in his hands. Adams looked up from his mobile at the sound, but quickly returned. Draco pressed the ball tight and flicked it toward the fireplace, only for it to disappear in a roar of green flames.

Harry stepped out looking bewildered but relieved. The paper ball skittered between his feet into Floos unknown. _Bon voyage_ , dildo doodle.

Adams stood, as if at attention. “Hey, boss. Nothing interesting to report.”

Harry blinked rapidly as he stepped out. “Uhm, alright.” He looked to Draco, who shrugged. “Dismissed?”

“Brilliant. Thanks.” Adams pocketed his mobile and stepped toward the fireplace.

“Oh. Adams.” The man’s step faltered and he turned to Harry. “You and Janice.”

Adams winced, but nodded. Harry smiled softly. “Just keep it professional.”

Draco huffed a soft laugh as his pen scratched new lines. Blocks and bars. A latticework of cold iron and rivets. “No _shenanigans_ in the DMLE, hmm?”

Harry busied himself dusting his jeans off. “Something like that.”

Adams practically tip-toed past Harry to step up on the hearth, and was gone in a green whoosh. Odd reaction to authority, that werewolf.

Harry watched the flames die down before taking the few quick steps to the edge of the sofa and dropping to his knees. Startled, Draco’s pen slid straight through the emerging sketch. Emerald eyes blinked next to him, hands hesitantly resting on the edge of the cushion along Draco’s upper arm.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, leaning forward to rest his lips on Draco’s tattooed shoulder. His stubble raised goosebumps as he rubbed his chin down the intricate pattern. Smooth lips and coarse whiskers alternated, working their way to Draco’s chest.

Draco hummed happily, arousal brewing. “You don’t have to apologize, _mon coeur_. But I’ve half a mind to let you.” 

A rough hand slid across his waist to grip his hip through the skirt, and his breath gasped in at the touch. The hand pressed his thigh, urging his knees apart. The sketchbook and pen tumbled to the floor, and Draco’s long fingers wound through the dark hair drifting down his side.

Harry’s tongue licked, hot and wet, along a faint scar below Draco’s nipple, ending in a nip of teeth in the center of his chest. Draco grunted softly in approval, surprised by his own reaction. Fitting, somehow, that he should retrace those lines with new purpose.

The hand on his hip pressed a warm line down the crease of his thigh, sliding over his cock, and he thrust up into the touch as heat pooled in his hips. “Incorrigible, _mon-_ ”

“Another word for ‘integral’?” The terrier barked from the other room.

Harry stifled a laugh against Draco’s skin. A soft tickle, little more than a sigh. “I wasn’t sure she came.”

Draco pulled Harry’s wandering hands from the satin, setting them firmly on his chest. “She’s working on new policies, so she’s as close to coming as she can get with her clothes on. Probably. Shall we distract her?”

He knew Harry would decline, but held a sliver of hope, regardless. Thrusting into Hermione to the sound of Harry’s moans would be utter perfection. Much more fun than discussion of dead women, crystal balls, suspicious aprons, and parole.

Harry’s thumbs grazed Draco’s nipples as he lifted his head. “We need to talk.” His hands slid to neutral territory on Draco’s arm, and he felt Harry’s thumb stroke along the main vine that curled over his bicep. Now tracing lines made tenderly and slowly with another man, Draco mused. Hard juxtaposition to the scars.

Draco’s lips were a resigned line as his head turned toward the bedroom. “Instrumental or essential, _ma chatte_.” Harry’s fingers wandered down Draco’s arms, spreading apart to follow individual tendrils, withdrawing as each line tapered off. His nipples hardened at the teasing touch. “I know about Narcissa, _mon coeur_.”

Wary confusion furrowed Harry’s brow, but Draco continued. “A… friend told me.” Harry’s steady gaze softened, and Draco hesitated to broach the more consequential topic. He released a deep breath before speaking. “What are the consequences? For what we did?”

Harry shook his head a bit too quickly for Draco’s liking. “None, I think.” He licked his lips, hands sliding together over Draco’s upper arm. “The Wizengamot would have been contacted, and this is Hermione’s registered Floo. So, I’d say it’s safe that parole breaches are only reported to the Head Auror.”

“So…” Draco drawled, watching Harry’s fingertips trace the design down his arm. “You’re answerable to yourself. The man with his hand on my balls is the one in charge of making sure he keeps his hands off my balls.”

Harry nodded, lips pulled between his teeth, deliberating. Draco watched him, wary of making premature conclusions. How law-abiding was his Auror when no one was watching? Did this Head Auror play by his own rules?

If Harry were just a _little_ unscrupulous, Draco would have his hands down this man’s pants so fast, he might embarrass himself. He closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath, willing himself to stop thinking about Harry’s hard, heavy cock in his hands.

“I’m not certain it went unnoticed,” Harry whispered, lowering his lips to Draco’s shoulder. He pressed a kiss and rose. “It’s only one more week.”

“Right,” Draco sighed, resigned. “One more week.”

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Bitter Sweets

I suspect… something… of one held dear.  
I think… something… no one should hear.  
I feel… something, but it’s _not_ fear.  
A life debt paid from yesteryear.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************

Dobrynya Aquila Malfoy-Granger

Bryn, son, what can I say you haven’t heard?  
The first Dobrynya slew the dragon, a story you’ve been told.

I could tell you I first met you in water, dark and cold.  
No, love, not the river. The sea inside my head.

I could regale with Uncle’s steps mistread,  
But fierce loyalty there lies.

So, I’ll stand and maybe cry,  
as my heart leaps out…

Mounts up…

And flies.

DLM 2014 Falmouth Falcons Stadium  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	35. Blood and Thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry, they didn't ask if you _wanted_ kids, did they?
> 
> Ron, somebody should probably check in on you.
> 
> Hermione, bold move.
> 
> Molly, nobody asked you to bring the feelings.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Tip of the Tongue, Bone-Deep 

Names of the dead.  
Carved in mind and etched in souls.

Names of the dead.  
In drink or skin, all prudence fled.

Threads pulled. Frayed. Taut. All feigned control.  
Then who am I? To remain whole?

Names of the dead.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

The curse of the early riser, Draco surmised, was resisting waking one’s slumbering loved ones for entertainment. And out of mortal terror.

Harry lay on his side with the Kneazle purring contentedly in a crescent around his head like a ginger clown wig. One tanned arm was thrown across Hermione’s waist, fingers brushing Draco.

Draco had fallen asleep to the sound of them discussing werewolf-friendly DMLE policies and options for family leave requirements. It was rather nice. A different kind of love. A different kind of bedsport. 

He slid out, momentarily halting when the Kneazle opened one yellow eye to inspect him. Harry and Hermione didn’t wake, and he watched them. They were a formidable team. An uncomfortable obsolescence bloomed in his chest as Hermione rolled to put her back to Harry, and he tightened the arm around her with a sigh. Who was Draco Malfoy to bed the Head Auror and a Wizengamot councilwoman? 

His gaze flicked out between the bookcases to the table, still with its dildonic adornment. He was just a man in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, with a table covered in dicks. Glancing around, he found the yellow Cannons shirt peeking out from under Harry’s clothes and snatched it.

Above the pile of clothes, the early morning sunlight hit the quartz orb in the wall, making the streaks glow azure. Harry hadn’t mentioned daffodils, but his hands had smelled like muffins when he came home from Narcissa’s cell.

Muffins and daffodils, the only thing the crystal orb had shown him for weeks. Perhaps now it had something else to offer.

Tentatively, he rested his fingertips on it, grateful it didn’t leap into his mind like it had before.

_Vines. Smooth, winding tendrils like snaking fingers grasping at air. Curling around each other in knots, tightening into heavy cords.  
Thorns. Spikes erupting along the vines as they grew. Long, curved talons at the base, fading off to small needle-like spikes on the thinnest tendrils.  
Ruby pinpoints of blood on the delicate tips._

With a steadying breath, he removed his touch and stared at the crystal. Still ominous, then. Perhaps this crystal ball was more of a doom orb than anything. A crystalline Augury.

Thorned vines and blood. Was it a reference to his tattoo? It didn’t have thorns.

He ambled through the living room, tapped each of the three dildos on the head in greeting as he passed, and started a pot of coffee. The Kneazle followed him, chirruping a salutation, likely in hopes of a treat.

“Chicken, _lionceau_?”

————————————

Ron snuck a glance around the Burrow kitchen and den, double-checking his parents weren’t within earshot before chucking a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace. The emerald flames licked up quietly in cooperation. “Creature Crypt,” he whispered, stepping in.

With a lurch and roil, he high-stepped into the Wheeze’s lowest level and cast a _Lumos_. Bit risky, coming in straight away, but he’d realized in the middle of the night that he’d left the crystals tumbling for entirely too long. Better to sneak up from below and avoid the staff who were opening the store.

He breathed a relieved sigh at the empty dissection table. As he did every time he was in the room, he considered shutting the Floo down permanently. Only MACUSA knew who he was, even if they’d pretended not to. Well, them and that ICW guy.

He pondered the implications as he climbed the stairs to the hatchery level. A strange scent wafted down the stairwell, stronger the higher he got. Not a bad smell, but not the usual hot metal and lizard stink.

It smelled like a forest at night, but in a vaguely threatening way that might burn his nostrils if he got too close. Had his brothers dropped off a new species of dragon? They were supposed to stop by the Burrow and subtly warn him first.

Steps quiet, in case there was a new hatchling hiding out, he crossed the room and disabled the rotary spell on the massive furnace-turned-tumbler. His palm wrapped around the handle of the door and he pulled back with a hiss. “ _Son of a bitch!_ ”

Scorched, reddened lines burned in his hand, and he cast a quick _Glacius_ over his palm and the handle. Why on earth was it so hot? That slow of a rotation couldn’t generate that much heat. And he’d disabled all the incubation charms.

He opened the grate, letting it fall forward with a deep clang. A plume of scorching night air burned his eyes as he groped in his back pocket for his wand. It was pitch black inside the drum.

“ _Lumos_.” He peered inside and could only see a sparkling black powder in the base of the metal barrel. It was close enough to grab a handful of, but he’d already burnt one hand.

A long-handled ash scoop from the corner would have to do. It clattered too loudly against the edges of the opening as he slid it deep into the powder.

He’d already resigned himself to finding nothing but smithereens, but there was plenty more quartz where this had come from. Instead, he drew it out to find some nearly perfect pearl-sized crystal orbs under the powder.

The powder was a curious thing itself. So fine, it was nearly a liquid. Dark, glittering, and just exceptionally clingy. And it was the source of the scent. He brushed his hand off on his pants, but the powder stuck in the whorls of his finger prints.

Ron licked a finger clean, tasted cherries, and his vision went black.

He tilted his chin up, blinking rapidly.

The stars were out over Diagon Alley.

————————————

Crookshanks wound himself between Draco’s ankles as he sipped his coffee and eyed the dildos. The cat wanted more chicken, the greedy beast. And Draco felt a bit gluttonous, as well. If Hermione stayed, the sex toy game could get a lot more interesting.

A signature tapped against the ward, and he cocked his head in interest. Three precise, perfectly polite taps, and magic that felt like… driving, pelting rain with flecks of sharp ice. Very odd. Rather unpleasant. And powerful.

Wary, he weighed his options. He couldn’t inspect this guest at the edge of the wards without waking Harry and dragging him along. If the person did mean him harm, probably better to be confronted within leaping distance of the Floo and with both Harry and Hermione by his side.

He took another sip of coffee and allowed the person entry. His finger prodded the orange dildo, sending it waving.

“Sharpen your claws, _lionceau_.”

——————————

 _The stars were so bright._ Ron had only seen a night sky so alive out at Shell Cottage. He turned, taking them in. They faded as the rough stone ceiling of the room came back into view.

Eyes blinking as if to clear dust, his gaze dropped back down to the room, and he licked the black powder from another finger. The light of the furnaces snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again.

The Big Dipper greeted him, twinkling above. Above Wheezes. Above Diagon Alley. Above the reach of the morning sunlight itself.

_”What the fuck?”_

——————————

Draco and Crookshanks watched the path through the window, one with a flicking tail, the other with a soft scowl. A crack of Apparition reverberated through the glass, and Crookshanks took off for the bedroom at a dead sprint, followed by a grumble from Hermione.

Molly Weasley landed on the path near the short garden wall, a large potted plant hugged to her chest. A rose bush, judging by the thorny, leafless branches. _The_ rose bush, he realized with a start. The silver rose bush. Liore’s bush. He swallowed past a lump in his throat and opened the door and stepped out.

“Oh, come here, child,” she cooed, hoisting the pot on one hip and wrapping the other arm around his shoulders. Her hand cupped the back of his head, pressing him into her slight, hard shoulder. With a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek, she released him. “That hug was a long time coming.”

He fought the urge to wipe his cheek, blushing as tears gathered. The tears broke free, tracing cooling lines down his cheeks. He sniffled as his nose ran, and he scrubbed his face with both sleeves of the sweatshirt. “That’s the bush, then?”

“Yes, dear,” she said softly. “Luna let me into Neve’s Rosales supplies, so it’s been fertilized, and repotted, and ready to transplant.” Her hand patted the pot on her hip like a toddler’s bottom, and he smiled at the gesture, but it faded into a mournful wistfulness.

This bush had been shown more care than his sister. If Harry’s restructuring had existed thirty years ago, the woman in front of him would have held Liore on her hip. She would have fed, and bathed, and raised his sister. Instead, they had a mass of thorns and a pot of dirt.

“Do you know where you want it, love?” She asked gently, watching him intently, ready to swoop in with another maternal embrace.

“Uhm,” he muttered, coughing to clear his throat. “Here. In the front garden. Close to the door, I think.”

She surveyed the rock face, nodding. “I think it’ll climb if it has something sturdy.”

“Oh,” he murmured. He stepped down next to her, arms running with goosebumps at the sudden chill. “The stone would be beautiful covered in silver roses.”

“Want to do the honors, darling?” She handed him the pot, and its lightness surprised him. It should weigh more, he thought. A living thing should be heavy.

He nodded slowly, shifting the pot to a hip and pulling out his knife. With a wary glance at Molly and a responding encouraging nod, he nicked a finger, letting a single drop of blood hit the dirt near the sheer granite face of the outcrop.

It was a different form of Blood Magic from Healing or wards. One that Ron had surpassed him in quickly. To use one’s own magical essence to alter natural materials was much like he used it to knit flesh.

The blood soaked into the sandy soil, and he pushed magic after it, chasing it deeper into the dirt, churning and loosening down several feet. Satisfied, he pulled on the magic, using it as a net to lift dirt to the side.

It seemed fitting to use Blood Magic in planting Liore’s rose bush. A child who’d died because of her blood. Whose blood had fed this plant. Her blood was his blood, and now it could chase his magic into the earth, winding them together into roots and blooms.

The pot separated from the potting soil easily, and he set the rootball in the hole, covering it to the base with loose dirt. Molly whispered an _Aguamenti_ , watering the roots down into their new home.

His hands pressed the damp soil down, hands around the base. A thorn scraped across his tattooed pinkie, and he drew back to look at the bleeding scratch.

He watched, jaw slack, as black ink rolled over into jade vines, normally-colorful flowers winking open into glistening silver blooms. Slowly, they opened and furled back shut, swirling in a glimmering mass on his shoulder before fading.

“Blood knows blood, hm?” Molly whispered, gaze on the bush.

Draco nodded vacantly. That shouldn’t have happened. Magnus could light it up, because his blood was in it. It made some sense for the Rusalka girl in his dream to have been able to, as Mag’s niece.

“Or magic knows magic,” he responded, rubbing his other hand over the design. “Thank you, Molly.”

“Least I could do, love.” Her lips parted, but hesitated, something on her mind. He waited, curious what could make Molly Weasley suddenly hesitant.

Insight hit him like a bolt of lightning. Cinnamon, cloves, foxglove. _I’d have killed her when I killed your aunt._

He’d known. Deep down, at least.

She spoke, having carefully found the words. “Daffodils look innocent, you know. The tender stalks and bobbing bright flowers. The whole Narcissus family of flowers is like that. But every part of the plant is quite poisonous. Flowers, leaves, stalks, bulbs. Every bit of them, death.”

He nodded, tears welling as she confirmed his suspicions and continued.

“Roses, however. They have a terrible kind of beauty, don’t they? Sharp thorns. Gnarled branches. Tempting flowers. They warn us that they’re not especially good to eat, but they don’t truly harm us if we do.”

Her arm slipped around his waist, pulling him tight. A tear escaped, running a cooling line down his cheek as his throat tightened. 

It wasn’t that he mourned Narcissa’s death. More that he was ashamed of the overwhelming relief of her passing. The weight that lifted and threat that dissipated with her being gone was a strange companion to grief.

She pulled him into a tight hug, skirt wrapping around his legs as her arms bound his shoulders down to hers. “They’ll be safe here,” she whispered. “You’ll all be safe here, Draco.”

He sobbed a half-laugh against her shoulder.

“Lucius prefers blueberry muffins,” he said with a wry smile and glistening eyes.

She slapped the back of his head playfully. “Scamp.” Her fingers ruffled his hair. “You’re about due for a haircut.”

He nodded and let her hold him, neither of them ready to part.

——————————

Harry woke to claws on his chest, a kick to his shin, his ward bracelet buzzing, and pearls falling on his face in a wild cacophony of motion, sound and personal bewilderment.

Hermione, the apparent source of the shin kick, grumbled next to him. “Dammit, you Cowardly Lion. What time is it?”

His hand groped around for his glasses and came up empty. “ _Accio_ glasses.”

Metal and glass slapped into his palm, and he slid them on. The frames were too tight, and his vision went from fuzzy to warped and fuzzy. Draco’s glasses.

“Hey, ‘Mione, can you see where the cat knocked my glasses? And what does this bracelet say?” He held his wrist up and waited.

“Molly Weasley,” she muttered, rising to her knees to sort through the clutter on the ledge. “Crooks, you made a terrible mess up here. And coughed up a hairball? Honestly.”

A pair of more familiar glasses landed in his palm this time, and he slid them on while grabbing his mobile from the ledge. “Half-seven,” he muttered, scrolling through a night’s worth of messages from Auror teams. A fairly quiet night, overall. About time.

“ _Shit_ ,” Hermione hissed. “I have a presentation in an hour.”

He shrugged, snuggling down into a pile of pillows as he read through various low-level investigation updates. “Watch your purse near Wheezes,” he mused distractedly. “We’ve got a pickpocket on the loose.” His fingers scratched over his stubble. “Or a stray Niffler again.”

She hadn’t moved for several moments, and he slowly turned to her. His lips parted to speak, but followed her transfixed gaze to the tent in his boxers. “Problem, Ms. Granger?” he asked politely.

“No…” she drawled. “Not a problem. Uhm. Do you want to… Or want me to…” A hot flush crept up her cheeks, and he smiled. She was as easily riled in the morning as Draco.

His fingers slid down under the band of his pants, wrapping around his hard length. His eyes fluttered as he squeezed it, a jolt of pleasure coursing through him.

“Do I want you to what, ‘Mione?” He returned his mobile to the ledge and settled in to tease a witch. Maybe a wizard, too, if he came in. That would be exceptionally fun.

She shook her head, curls whispering over the t-shirt on her shoulders. His t-shirt, he noted. He wasn’t going to have any clothes left if his lovers kept stealing them. _Lovers_ , he thought with a smile and a happy shimmy.

“Uhm…” She angled her head to the side, watching his hand move under the soft cotton. “Whatever you want.”

He shook his head disapprovingly. “You’ve got a presentation, I thought. Important law school things and whatnot.”

A deeply frustrated sigh flowed through her flared nostrils. “It’s important for marks, but not to… the world.” She flopped down next to him, nestling her head on his chest. “I hate school, Harry.”

“This is an _amazing_ polyjuice.” He picked up a curl and stretched it out. “You look so much like Hermione Granger, but you really haven’t done your background research.”

Her fingers tweaked his nipple, and he squeaked. She caught the other one in her lips, and he hummed softly as he relaxed back down. “I hate sitting in class listening to lectures on Muggle law and then _leading_ Wizengamot committees where we’re _making_ wizarding law. It’s so pointless.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But we need a barrister.” Gold-flecked brown eyes rolled up to him, still not enthusiastic. “ _I_ need a barrister, ‘Mione. One I trust to help me with the overhaul. I can’t do this without you.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

“Hmm, “ she hummed, fingers trailing along his forearm to dip under his waistband. “What’s in it for me?” She bit her lip and glanced up at him.

Harry feigned a shocked gasp. “Just another corrupt-“ Her fingers wrapped around his cock, and he actually gasped as she stroked him in a tight grip.

Gods, she felt good. He’d gotten so used to only being touched through fabric, that he’d nearly forgotten what skin felt like. Her tongue flicked out to lick his nipple, and he groaned.

Fucking hell, he’d gotten off several times a day with Draco for weeks, but it had been a _while_ since he’d gotten to come _in_ someone. Her teeth locked on his nipple and worked down his chest, leaving small red imprints. His skin crawled at the sharp nips, but his cock twitched and leaked, more than ready for her.

She divested him of his boxers and licked her lips as his cock slapped against his belly. “I want to at least hear you come. Then I really do have to leave.”

His words failed him, replaced by a deep hum as her lips slid over the tip of him. Her tongue swirled along the underside of his head, and his hips bucked up to meet her, soft curses falling from his lips.

Threads of hot weight curled in his hips, and he knew it wouldn’t take her long to bring him. Her mouth popped off, and she whispered something he didn’t catch. Her lips parted around him again, and he relaxed into the rhythm of her tongue and cheeks sucking and squeezing him as she slid.

Slick heat skimmed below his balls, and his eyes widened. She caught his gaze and slowed her mouth’s movements, watching him cooly. Her fingers grazed downward to the wrinkled skin of his hole as she hummed a wordless question.

The heat that had pooled in his pelvis dwindled as indecision chased arousal away. She hummed the question again. No words. Just a gentle offer.

He nodded, and she grinned around the head of his cock. It should have looked silly, he thought, but it was comforting. She was comforting. Trustworthy. Plus, she had small fingers, he thought. If he were going to let someone touch his ass, better it be someone with small hands.

His head fell back against the pillows, and he willed his body to relax. If he focused on her mouth, maybe he could forget about her-

He gasped as her finger slid right through the tight ring of muscle, and her knuckles rested against his body. She didn’t move it, and he was grateful as his hole tightened around her finger.

It didn’t hurt, which helped him relax. But it didn’t feel good, either. He drew in a deep breath and remembered Draco saying something similar about one of the dildos.

He blew a breath out and nodded to her. Her free hand stroked him, and she slid him out of her mouth. She worked her jaw open and closed, giving the muscles a break, and whispered an incantation again.

The hand on his cock was suddenly slick and hot, and he groaned as she slid it over the head of his cock and slowly down. As it rose back up, the finger in his ass moved, just slightly.

Her finger crooked against his prostate, and he shouted, thrusting his cock into her hand. The heat and tension that had pooled came roaring back, and she _touched_ it.

The front door clicked shut, and he ignored it. Nothing existed beyond the burning need between her finger and her hand, and her steady coaxing.

“Oh, gods,” he chanted as her hands moved. “Oh, gods. Oh… _FUCK_ ,” he groaned as the tension broke, and her finger pushed against it as his cock throbbed.

His release splashed down her hand, on his belly, and across a thigh. Her finger pressed as her hand milked the last drops from him.

“Jesus Muggleborn Christ, ‘Mione,” he panted. She grinned wickedly up at him. Her trademark _Top Marks Again_ smirk. “Where the fuck did you learn to do _that_?”

His head flopped back, body thoroughly wrung out. Her finger slid out, and her hand disappeared with a whispered cleaning spell.

“Well,” she pipped. “I believe my instructor is in the kitchen making coffee.”

“Huh,” he huffed. His brain was fuzzy, and he knew he needed to get up and respond to all the messages from Aurors. But the bed was so perfect, and he didn’t really feel like he had bones in any of his limbs. Nobody expected a man with boneless limbs to do anything productive.

A blurry form drifted between the bookcases; white on top, yellow in the middle, and black on the bottom. Harry adjusted his glasses, which had somehow been knocked off on one side.

Draco stood in the doorway holding a mug of coffee. His eyes were red-rimmed, but heat filled his gaze as he took them in. Harry wasn’t sure if he should apologize. Had they upset him? Should they have waited for him? Or at least told him?

A riot of curled lines decorated the mug in his hands. “Coffee, _ma buveur d’encre?_ ” Draco offered, face a neutral mask.

Harry looked to Hermione, hoping to take a cue from her on whether they’d made a misstep. He failed to get a good glimpse of her face before she turned to accept the mug.

Draco’s fingers lingered over hers, and a cold feathery sensation tickled Harry’s eyes. Draco quirked an interested eyebrow at Hermione, then hummed softly.

Slate grey eyes drifted up Harry’s body, lingering on his still-swollen cock, coming to rest on his face. Harry swallowed thickly as the scrutiny in the other man’s gaze burned over his skin.

“ _Ma chatte_ , that’s…” Draco took a shuddering breath. “Promising.” His face turned back to her, watching her take her first sip of coffee. She nodded softly and hummed her agreement.

Harry frowned at the both of them. “It’s not fair, you know. Legilimency in bed like that.”

“ _Mon coeur_ ,” Draco chided. “You’re the one who chooses not to play.”

Hermione turned and shot him a withering frown as she sipped, shrugging in agreement with Draco. Feeling oddly exposed, Harry slid his boxers back up over his hips. 

He had great reasons to avoid Legilimency. The last person in his head had been Voldemort. The first person in his head had been Voldemort. Suffice to say, those and none of the experiences in between had been pleasant, even the few that hadn’t been intrusive or painful.

Draco bit the inside of his lip, face softening. “Magnus didn’t ask, did he?”

Confused, Harry shook his head as Draco crawled onto the duvet. Hermione slid carefully off the foot of the bed, mug held reverently in both hands. She made her way to her rucksack on the couch, tipping back the mug as she walked. Her bum peeking out from under his shirt was adorable, and he smiled as he watched her.

Long fingers skimmed along Harry’s waist, and his nipples tightened. “Magnus poured memories in your head and didn’t bother to knock, hm?”

“Oh,” Harry said, catching on. “I guess he did. But I hadn’t really thought of that as Legilimency. It didn’t hurt.”

“It shouldn’t hurt,” Draco said softly, snuggling his head on Harry’s chest. Harry sighed happily, the earlier orgasm catching back up to him in a yawn. His fingers threaded through blonde hair.

“The way they taught us, and the way Voldemort used it; those were weapons, not communication. The Ministry and Hogwarts teach people how to… how to bite, not how to kiss.” His fingers slid through the come on Harry’s belly, tracing wet lines. “Do you follow?”

Draco licked his fingertips clean with a satisfied hum. Very distracting, Harry thought, parsing through the other man’s words.

It kind of made sense, Harry figured. What they taught was easier to detect and control, just like their insistence on wands and criminalization of Blood Magic. They’d taught Defense Against the Dark Arts, not How to Responsibly Use the Dark Arts.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Harry snuffled his nose into Draco’s hair, and felt the other man tense up. “Don’t you dare, Potter.”

He wrapped his arms around the head of blond hair, and rolled himself on top of Draco, pinning his upper arms, and catching his hips between Harry’s legs. Auror hand-to-hand training wasn’t entirely useless.

Slowly, Harry lowered his face toward Draco’s ear, sniffing dramatically. “Potter! You mother fucker!”

Harry dropped suddenly and buried his face in the crook of Draco’s neck, snuffling and snorting into his skin as Draco squealed and writhed under him.

“You fucking pig!” he yelled, flailing as best he could.

The Floo crackled, and they both ignored it as Hermione left.

Draco’s hips pressed up against him, struggling to escape, then lingering in interest. Harry’s snorts dissolved into kisses and soft nips as he let his weight sink Draco against the mattress. Draco’s fingers skimmed through Harry’s hair, holding him close.

Their bodies calmed, but their breathing sped, hips catching a slow, grinding rhythm. Harry’s lips found Draco’s, warm and slick. They met in a soft melding that grew to eager whimpers and the skim of hot tongues.

A tug on Harry’s hair pulled him away, but urged him to press his hard cock against Draco. “Mmm, _mon cochon_ , you are wonderfully greedy in the morning.”

Harry let himself be rolled onto his side, Draco moving with him. Their legs slotted together, and Draco brought his hand up to Harry’s cheek, thumb rubbing the stubble along his chin. 

“Harry,” he said firmly. Too firm, Harry thought. Too serious. “I do want to show you things. The same things Hermione and Ron have seen. But I’m not Magnus. Or Voldemort. Or Snape. So, I’m not going to do it unless you ask.” 

Harry nodded reluctantly. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see. Ron talked about the kids constantly, and Hermione had brought up her own grey hair, and they’d each halted and looked at Harry with a certain kind of pity. Like they had just realized he had no idea what they were talking about, which was actually true.

It felt like being the last person without the Internet. But in this case, the technology could root around and find out your darkest, deepest secrets. So, maybe a lot like the Internet, actually.

He rested his lips on Draco’s forehead. What was the worst thing that could happen? What was the worst thing Draco could find in his head?

His directionless survivor’s guilt that had only recently faded? His lingering sexual hesitancies? His insecurities about having children? His terror about himself as a father?

 _That_ was it. He could be impatient and easily-annoyed. He still had a tendency to lash out. He had all the makings for a horrific father, really. And he’d had _great_ examples on how to mistreat a child. There was no reason he couldn’t grow up to become Uncle Vernon.

Yet another thing Draco seemed to have overcome that still weighed Harry down. Draco knew he wouldn’t be anything like the monsters who raised him. He’d already pretty well proven it.

Harry didn’t really see himself as a parent, but he didn’t dislike kids. It was fine, in abstract, but he was wary as hell about it for himself. Draco, Ron, and Hermione all _wanted_ families. No, one family. Together. The flowers on the hearth rug had made that pretty clear. 

But it didn’t really say what his role in all of this was. Cool Uncle Harry? Or father? Was there a difference? Did it matter?

None of them had ever asked Harry if he wanted kids. They all just seemed to either assume he did, or that Seer dreams and hearth rugs were indisputable..

“You cannot create a Legilimency bond by sucking my brain through my forehead, _mon coeur_.”

“Oh!” Harry whispered, pulling his lips away from Draco. “Sorry. I was thinking.” He took a deep breath and spoke in a rush. “Kids kind of freak me out, Dray. Like, a lot.”

To his relief, Draco merely shrugged and scratched the stubble along Harry’s jaw. “Human children are exceptionally freaky. Umbilical cords. Soft spots. Deciduous teeth. Macabre, really.” He grinned and waggled Harry’s chin. “But they smell good and are very snuggly.”

“No,” he whispered. “Not the actual kids. Me. And kids.” Harry turned and rubbed his face against a pillow. “I’m not… I don’t think I’ll be good with kids. Or even okay. Bad, even.”

He turned and looked back up, expecting some kind of rejection, but Draco simply hummed and nodded softly. “I thought that, too. I was sure I’d hex a student for chewing gum or something silly.” His lips pulled under as he thought. “It is disorienting, _mon coeur_. Every time I disciplined a student with more mercy than I was shown, it hurt. In a good way.” 

His fingers threaded through Harry’s hair. “It hurts to give children what you were never given, and that you had to grow for yourself. But it gets easier, and you won’t be doing it alone.” His lips found Harry’s, and laid a soft kiss. “And you _are_ good to them. I already peeked.”

“I am?” Harry croaked, blinking back tears. Draco nodded, brushing his nose along Harry’s. “I never really thought about even having a family till you told me I was going to. Or we are? Or you guys are, and I’m somehow still around?”

Draco smiled softly, but his eyes looked sad, and Harry rubbed his hand down Draco’s side. “You’re definitely involved. And the little one, well, she’s exactly what I would expect from you and our terrier.”

“She?” Harry whispered. _She_. A daughter. Did she look like him? Act like him?

Harry sighed. He could do this. He’d just had a finger up his butt, for Merlin’s sake. And that had turned out to be fantastic. The way to his heart may have been his stomach, and apparently the way to his head was up his ass.

“Okay. Show me,” Harry said. Draco’s eyes lit up, but his brow quirked in suspicion. “Show me a dream. You pick which one. Just… nothing scary.”

Draco bit his lip, whether in thought or indecision, Harry couldn’t tell. Worst case scenario, Harry reminded himself, Draco would end up thinking of him as sub-par father material.

“Alright. I want to show you the dream I had the night I… well…” Draco trailed off.

“Say it again?” Harry asked with a grin.

Draco returned his smile. “I love you.” He shuffled his hips closer. “Ready?”

Harry nodded and kissed the tip of Draco’s nose. “Mm hm.”

It was a half-truth. He wasn’t ready. But he was more ready now than he had been. Ready to meet her. To meet all of them.

A cold breeze skimmed the corners of his eyes.

_The platform was loud. So loud._

—————————————

Ron leaned back in his office chair and licked his finger. The sweet-sour rush of cherries filled his mouth with saliva, and lights snuffed out and the stars blazed, the Milky Way aglow.

He rolled the handful of quartz orbs around in his palm as he watched the heavens, eyes wide. What could this possibly be useful for? Entertainment, definitely. Maybe some kind of divination? He made a mental note to send some to Luna.

Was he allowed to sell the powder at Wheezes? It seemed like something a little too dangerous to give to kids, given that it made seeing his immediate surroundings impossible. Maybe he could sell it to the Goblins? Whatever they put in koboldozers was below the table.

The crystal balls squeaked as they rubbed against each other in his palm. He may have left them in there a hell of a lot longer than he’d intended, but they were perfect. Even if Draco said they were duds for Seers, they were still damned pretty.

The ceiling faded back into view, and he looked at the jewels in his hand. It was fair to call them jewels. Sky-blue inclusions streaked through the crystal, and flecks of mica sparkled like silver glitter. Bloody gorgeous. They needed a name. So did the powder.

He licked a finger, leaned back, and twirled in his office chair, the galaxy swirling above him.

—————————————

Draco wiped a tear from the side of Harry’s nose and wondered what about the dream had brought him to tears so soon. Maybe when he greeted Draco with a peck on the chin in public? What would Harry thought if he did that now?

How was the magical community going to react to their relationship? The Prophet was going to slap them on the front page, and Witch Weekly… Oh gods, Baz would be all over them.

He blew out a slow breath and pulled his lips between his teeth to keep them off Harry’s skin.

Harry’s lips flickered with a smile, and Draco assumed he was watching himself break up the adolescent gambling circuit. Emerald eyes drifted open lazily, examining him. He’d only been in the memory for a few seconds.

“You stopped?” Draco asked. 

“No, I watched it a couple times.”

“Impossible,” Draco scoffed. “You couldn’t even have seen a third of it in that time.”

Harry shrugged, one shouldered and softly bewildered. “I wanted it to go faster, so it did. And I wanted to watch it again, so I did.”

“Huh,” Draco huffed. “Your impatience and greed serve you well.”

Harry rolled onto his back, a stray tear running from the outer corner of his eye. Draco was tempted to wipe it away, but settled for pretending to not notice. Harry sniffed and wiped it away himself. Sentiment overcame Draco’s wariness of overcrowding him, and he snuggled up close, his lips against Harry’s upper arm.

Harry cleared his throat and let Draco rest an arm on his chest. “You were right,” Harry murmured, bringing Draco’s fingers to his lips. “They like me. And I like them.”

Draco’s breath came out in a rush. What would he have done if Harry had had any other reaction? Excused him from duty? Bought him parenting books? Signed him up for classes on changing diapers?

“Dray, when are we getting married?”

Draco’s breath caught. “What?”

He’d asked without any kind of emotion, but this was from the man who’d dragged his heels about everything. It was a miracle he’d ever ended up in Draco’s bed at all, and now he expected a fucking wedding? Dreaded a wedding?

“We had rings.” Harry rubbed the pads of Draco’s fingers over his lips. Draco nodded vacantly.

“Oh,” he said softly. “I hadn’t made much of it, _mon coeur_. I don’t know what the rings are for.” Draco shrugged ambivalently. He’d worn plenty of rings in his time; some to impress, one to mark him as a Malfoy.

“What else would they be, Dray?” Harry kissed his way down Draco’s ring finger. His left ring finger. “I’ve never owned jewelry in my life, and I can only think of one reason I’d wear a ring.”

Draco hid his face against Harry’s arm, eyes tight against threatening tears. How many times had he rewatched this dream, and never once realized what it would mean for Harry to wear a ring?

Harry shifted his hips, bending his far knee. “Ron and Hermione didn’t notice the rings?” 

He lifted his arm and slid it under Draco’s head, bringing his cheek onto Harry’s chest. Harry’s thumb wiped a tear from the bridge of Draco’s nose as he sniffed and shook his head.

“I think they only had eyes for the kids,” Draco whispered.

“Oh, yeah, that makes-“ Harry’s mobile buzzed on the ledge above their heads, and a soft frown bloomed over his face. “That makes sense.” He rolled on his side to reach up and grope around for the mobile, and settled back down to scroll through messages.

Harry rolled his eyes at his mobile and snuggled back down. “In the dreams, do you understand the twins’ language? It’s weird.”

Draco bit his lip and tried to fix Harry with a serious look, but only succeeded in examining his stubble. “Their what?”

“When they were walking to the train and talking to each other, it was in their own language.” He adjusted his glasses and examined his mobile again. “Included a fair bit of Parseltongue, from what I could lipread.”

“You’re full of surprises,” Draco huffed, and considered his words. “Malu picks it up from you, I think.”

“Malu?” Harry asked with a hesitant grin. “They have names?”

Draco nodded, returning the grin. “She calls you ‘Daddy’.”

Harry barked a laugh and threw his mobile on the foot of the bed. He shoved Draco onto his back and rolled on top of him. “At least she doesn’t call me a fucking pig.”

Draco’s body melted under the weight of him, warm and heavy. His knees bent to cradle Harry’s hips. “No, I’m the only one-“

He halted mid-sentence as Harry’s mouth found his earlobe with a gentle nip. “I want you, Dray.” Harry said with a frustrated sigh. “I want you like this. Under me.”

Desire pooled, hot and heavy as Harry’s knees spread, sliding his hips lower between Draco’s legs. Draco swallowed thickly and let his hips raise in offering. 

“Soon.”

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Ominous Orbs

Crystal eyes.  
Histories bygone reprise.  
Gods, she’s got her father’s eyes.

Volary now stabilized.  
Roots dug deep,  
branches twined as blood allies

Gods, time stops at those first cries.  
Futures swirl and galvanize.  
Crystalize.

DLM 2011 St. Mungo’s Labor and Delivery  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	36. AstraNox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron, you're kind of drug dealer!  
> Hermione, you're kind of a badass!  
> Harry, you're kind of nasty-good!  
> Draco, you're kind of happy! Finally.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Reverse-Helix Updraft

To the chick hatched in descent,  
every spiral’s downward.  
The ground is just abstract.

To the hatchling less nascent,  
every boost feels backward.  
A bothersome clash of fact.

To the yearling newly prescient,  
every updraft’s homeward.  
Stick the landing. Surprise attack.

And to wise birds, now sentient,  
Every wingstroke’s forward.  
It’s a flock, not a suicide pact.

DLM 2003 Sea of Okhotsk  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

The real knife twist of group projects was sharing the credit, Hermione thought bitterly as she slid back into her seat. She stuffed her presentation notes into her rucksack and checked her mobile. At least class was almost over.

Two more groups were presenting, which, despite being seasoned students, meant a lot of awkward shuffling, stammering, and underwhelming visuals. It was tort law, for Merlin’s sake. It wasn’t that hard to spice up.

Her mobile buzzed on her desk, and she cringed at the sound, but no one around her paid it any mind.

**WIZENGAMOT TRIAL NOTIFICATION**

**RESENTENCING OF LUCIUS ABRAXAS MALFOY  
#51487  
2 PM, COURTROOM TEN  
PLEASE REPLY VIA TEXT WITH “YES” OR “NO”**

Hermione stared at her mobile screen. This had to be a joke. The Ministry didn’t send text alerts. Did they?

_Arse-end Auror. I just got a text from the Ministry about a Wizengamot trial this afternoon? Is this for real?_

**Sure is!  
Glad it worked.  
I got it, too.**

_What? How? When?_

**Issued mobiles to Wizengamot and administrators when I got them for the Aurors.**

_They HATE Muggle technology. They’re not going to use them. Just me._

**Nah.  
Looks like most of them already responded.  
But not Councilwoman Granger.**

_How did you get them to USE the mobiles?!_

**Falk knew a Muggleborn bookie.  
Might have let the mobile numbers slip.**

_Quidditch gambling?!  
That’s… illegal, for one thing._

**Councilwoman Granger still hasn’t replied.  
She’s so unprofessional.  
Probably sucking off DMLE administrators again.**

_I hate you._

**Kinda wanna fuck you while Draco fucks me.**

Hermione’s breath hitched, and several students looked at her. The young woman presenting her case study hesitated, eyes on Hermione. She cleared her throat and continued.

Heat scorched up Hermione’s neck to her cheeks. Godric’s gullet, did that sound… enticing. Maybe Harry on top of her, and Draco behind him. Draco’s grey gaze on her, over Harry’s shoulder while he thrust Harry into her. _Fuck._

And _gods_ , the noises Harry had made this morning when she’d had her finger inside him. He’d probably come entirely unspooled with Draco’s cock in his ass, and his own length buried inside her.

Her mobile vibrated again, and she realized she hadn’t replied to the Ministry text.

_YES_

She blew out a slow breath and tried to concentrate on her tepid surroundings. She was going to be sitting in a courtroom deciding a man’s fate in a few hours. And had just been asked to gang up on the top authority in magical law enforcement. Meanwhile, on every side of her, bored law students struggled to stay awake while one of their own crucified herself on the monotony of her own words, likely taken verbatim from a textbook.

**Enthusiastic.  
Nice.**

She snorted, re-reading the conversation and realizing she’d replied to Harry, not the Ministry. It didn’t need correcting, though. She switched over to the correct window.

_YES_

**ATTENDANCE CONFIRMED  
COUNCILWOMAN GRANGER**

“Uhm, family emergency,” she muttered to no one, in particular, as she zipped up her rucksack, hoisted it onto her shoulder, and slunk out of the classroom.

—————————————

Ron crossed off several words in a long list. Something to do with night. Night, and crystals, and stars.

 _Nox_ , like the darkness spell. Nox… stars. _Astra._

“AstraNox,” Ron muttered with a nod. “Starry Night. That’ll do.”

He leaned back in his chair and prepared for launch as he licked the black powder from the last finger. The galaxy unfurled above him like a woman sliding out of a silk robe. Bloody beautiful.

—————————————

_Harry! Why aren’t you in Courtroom Ten?  
Are you getting coffee?  
Bring me a coffee.  
Harry! They’re handing out agendas. You’re vaguely aware of agendas.  
Adams is presenting for the DMLE?!  
Okay, I talked to Adams. He’s prepared.  
But seriously, where are you?  
Harry.  
Harry.  
Haaaaaaaarry!  
A Kneazle is stuck in a tree!_

**I’m not coming.  
I don’t need to be there.  
Adams was lead for the Manor investigation.  
Wolves know bones.  
He has orders to Stupefy Lucius if he scents blood.**

_Huh. That’s smart._

**I have my moments.  
Gotta go.  
Important parole stuff.**

_Is that what you two call it?  
Send pictures._

**Extortion by the Wizengamot?  
Or would it be blackmail?  
Or general abuse of power?  
He swapped out the dildos for bigger ones ;)**

_Tease._

**If you insist.  
Now he’s lining them up like a damn billiards shot.  
It’d be tedious if it weren’t for the lace knickers.**

_Oh?_

**Mm hmm.  
Don’t you have a trial?**

_Not yet…  
Go on..._

**Well, he’s fingering his ass.  
And mad at me about my mobile.  
Now he’s not.  
He says “Bon courage booverdonk”  
Fuuuuuuck gotta go**

—————————————

Harry tried to fit the mobile into his hip pocket, but his jeans had gotten too tight, so he settled for tossing it on the sofa. It bounced, and he held his breath as it ricocheted off the armrest to settle safely on a cushion.

A soft moan from the table pulled his attention back to the show in front of him. Draco slid his knees forward to the middle of the table, leaving the yellow dildo behind him as he approached the orange one.

“Ogden’s Knob,” Draco huffed derisively, spreading slick fingers around its tip.

This was a form of _torture_ , Harry thought. It was difficult enough to keep his fucking hands to himself last time. And he’d failed. Spectacularly.

This time was worse. This time, they’d agreed on no touching at all. Draco didn’t trust him, and Harry certainly didn’t trust himself. Especially not with the red dildo on the table. The one that was an exact replica of his own cock.

Draco hummed softly as he sank down on the thick orange length. Harry watched it slowly disappear inside the other man as he fought his own appreciative moan. It looked like it felt so good. One of Hermione’s fingers had blown his fucking mind. What did having an entire cock feel like?

He stood uneasily at the head of the table and wrapped his hand around the red dildo. Millicent really should have just named it after him. “Harry cock” sounded terrible, though. “Potter penis”? Wow, no. Maybe naming dildos was more difficult than he gave her credit for.

“If you’re going to stroke your own cock in front of me, at least make it the one I prefer, _mon cochon_.” Draco smirked, but his eyes fluttered shut and his face went slack as his hips moved. A soft sigh fell from his parted lips, followed by a low hum as he caught his lips between his teeth. “Warm it, _mon coeur_. And then step back.”

Harry nodded and realized he’d been stroking the dildo while his cock strained painfully behind his zipper. He released it and sighed at the instant relief. His gaze flicked between his cock and the dildo. Surreal.

That dildo got to be inside Draco. It got to feel his tight, hot ass sliding along its shaft. It got to hit Draco’s prostate just right and pull guttural moans from his throat as he rode it. It got to feel Draco’s body squeeze it while he came. 

Harry got to... watch. And probably wank on the floor from five paces away.

It was then that he got an idea. A filthy idea. Harry had a wonderful, filthy idea.

He was going to come all over this dildo and watch Draco fuck himself with it. He was going to watch Draco Malfoy shove his come up his ass and Draco would _adore_ it.

Harry grinned and wrapped a fist around his cock, pumping quickly, surprised how close he already was. Draco sank down on the orange dildo and watched him, puzzled, but a bit entranced. Long, pale fingers teased the head of his cock as he sat, hips catching a gentle rocking motion.

“Move for me, Dray,” Harry growled, stoking the building heat at the base of his spine. “Move like you fucking mean it.”

“Oh, I…” He lifted up and stopped, gauging Harry’s intent. Draco’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, Potter, you wonderful sick fuck,” he chuckled. “I fucking love you.”

Harry grinned and huffed an amused breath. “Tell me what you want.” A soft moan followed his next stroke as he anticipated Draco’s words.

“Mmm,” Draco hummed, bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to stretch myself around your cock.”

Panting breaths fell from Harry as he watched Draco move, just out of arm’s reach. Harry’s cock leaked, tension spooling in his hips. Draco’s hips rocked in a slow rotation as he traced fingers down his flanks, body on display. His palms pressed down the outsides of his spread thighs as he sank deeper onto the orange length below him.

Wide grey eyes drifted to meet Harry’s gaze as he leaned forward, palms on the table, inching closer. “And I want your come inside me, Harry. I want to fuck it deep inside me.”

Harry’s hand snapped out to cup Draco’s jaw as he tried to crawl forward, desperate heat in his eyes. His thumb traced Draco’s chin, and he slid it between his lips. A slick, wet, tongue curled around Harry’s thumb, and the pressure in his body broke.

With a sharp shout, Harry came, leaning forward as his cock throbbed over the dildo and table. Draco’s teeth bit into Harry’s thumb as he watched, and Harry held his chin, keeping him still.

Harry blinked and took a deep, shaky breath as his hand milked the last few drops onto the garish red length in front of him. Draco growled softly around his thumb, and he tightened his grip on the other man’s jaw. It earned him an indignant huff.

Draco glared up at him as his teeth dug into Harry’s thumb, daring him to release his grip. Harry shook Draco’s chin gently. “You have a filthy mouth, you know,” he whispered with a soft smile. Draco hummed his agreement and prodded under Harry’s thumb with his tongue. He let Draco resume sucking it, his lips replacing the hard grip of his teeth.

“And you have a filthy mind, _mon cochon_ ,” Draco murmured, easing off the orange length to slide forward, just within Harry’s reach. “And a gorgeous fucking cock.”

Harry took a cautious step back from the table as Draco slid languidly toward him. His shoulders dipped, and his tongue flicked out to lick the tip of the red dildo, humming in appreciation. Wide black pupils rimmed by thin grey irises fixed on Harry’s exposed cock as Draco rose to kneeling over the red dildo. He licked his lips, faltering.

“Harry?” His voice broke, and he swallowed thickly.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, trying to hide his concern. “You okay?”

Wide eyes met his gaze and Draco nodded slowly. His eyes fluttered shut as his hand worked over his shaft, twisting a bit at the tip. His other hand traced the lines of the dildo below him, but his shoulders slumped as he sighed heavily.

Harry frowned as he zipped his jeans. Draco had gone from provocative to defeated in the few moments it had taken him to tuck himself in. “What’s wrong?”

Anxiety shot pinpricks up Harry’s chest and neck.

“You’re too far away, _mon coeur_. I’m going to fuck you, but it’s not you, but I’m doing it alone, and I hate it.” His voice cracked, and he fought a sniffle.

“Oh…” Harry said in a sigh.

It was different this time, he thought, with him having come already. The desperate, frantic throb in his cock wasn’t urging his hands into poor decisions.

Harry tucked his t-shirt in, taking a step toward the table while Draco eyed him warily. “I can keep my hands to myself. Or wherever you want them. But…I understand if you don’t want that. Azkaban and all.”

Draco hooked fingers through Harry’s belt loops and pulled him close, putting his upper thighs against the table’s edge.

“One hand in your back pocket, one on my shoulder, Auror,” he instructed, squaring his shoulders and looking down at Harry. It shouldn’t have been a commanding position, but he wore nude alabaster skin like it was armor.

“Shall we dance?” Harry asked with a nervous a smirk. Gratefully, Draco ignored him.

Draco’s shoulder was smooth and hot under his hand, and he fought the impulse to slide his fingers up into platinum hair and drag him forward into a smoldering kiss. Maybe his control wasn’t as good as he’d hoped.

Draco lowered himself down slowly and softly pressed his lips to Harry’s. Harry delved into the kiss with a moan, but Draco barely responded, lips softly parted, but not moving. Draco rested his lips against Harry’s chin and swallowed thickly as he sank further down.

Draco’s breath hissed in sharply, and Harry tensed. “Dray, if it’s too-“

“Shh.” His face rested in the crook of Harry’s neck. “ _Gods_ , Harry. You feel so fucking _good_.” 

Draco’s shoulders shook, and Harry realized Draco was bobbing up and down on the dildo, not just trying to fit it inside. Draco moaned into Harry’s shoulder, and he felt it jolt down to the hardening cock in his trousers.

Draco’s hand stroked his own cock in a steady rhythm, knuckles brushing against Harry’s crotch with every movement. His breath came in soft pants against Harry’s neck, and he was hard again within moments.

“Fuck,” Draco whispered as he stopped and pulled back. “Hand.”

He held his free hand out for Harry’s, and waited. Confused, Harry took his hand from his back pocket and set it in Draco’s waiting fingers.

“Do _not_ move this hand of your own accord,” Draco instructed as he laid Harry’s palm flat over his navel. Slowly, he slid Harry’s palm down, a soft trail of blond hair tickling his fingers as it came to rest between his hips.

Harry gulped. Draco held his cock with his other hand, but it was still far too close for safety. Draco leaned back to look up at him with a wicked grin. Harry’s thumb lay across Draco’s pelvis, just above the spread of downy blond hair, mere inches from the base of his cock. Draco pressed Harry’s hand firmly against himself and licked his lips.

“Dray…” He’d intended it as a warning, but it came out as a plea.

“You said to tell you what I want…” Draco sank down on the dildo, and the skin under Harry’s hand rose against his fingers. “This is what I want, Harry.”

Draco leaned back on one hand, the other stroking. The soft flesh under Harry’s fingers rose and fell with the movement of the dildo inside him. Harry’s lips parted to protest, but he couldn’t bring himself to object.

“I want you this deep. I want you to come in me. There.” He punctuated the statement with a sharp snap down.

“Oh, gods, Dray,” Harry whispered. His entire body burned with the need to climb on top of him, pin him down, and fuck him till they both came. His jaw clenched as he took a slow breath and focused on keeping his hand still.

His other hand stroked down from Draco’s shoulder, over his chest, lingering on a nipple and coming to rest on his waist. Harry’s fingers dug in as Draco moved, soft skin over firm muscle, tensing and thrusting.

Draco’s cock leaked down over his knuckles as he stroked, eyes wild and fixed on Harry. A scarlet flush crept up his chest and bloomed across his cheeks as he moved. Deep, growling moans trickled through his teeth, lips parted.

Harry shut his eyes, the sight of his husband in the throes of ecstasy overwhelming. _Husband?_ Fuck, he knew what he’d seen in that dream. This was his husband. His husband riding his cock, desperate for his come inside him. _HIS_.

Draco’s thrusts took on new urgency as his groans pitched higher. Harry dug his thumb in above the other man’s pubic bone, pressing on the length moving inside him. 

Draco cried out as his hips stuttered, white streaks landing on Harry’s jeans, the table, and trailing down Draco’s cock onto both their hands. Low moans shook Draco’s chest as he slowed, but kept moving.

Harry carefully slid his hands from Draco’s hips. He licked a stray drop off his thumb and caught Draco watching him intently. Draco grinned and leaned back on his elbows, hips still in motion. His still-hard cock lay against his belly, glistening and flushed. A pink streak graced his skin where Harry’s thumb had been, and a handprint decorated his waist. Harry hoped the marks lingered.

Tension spooled in Harry’s hips at sight of the red length still inside Draco. Arousal and jealousy burned side by side in his chest as he watched him move. This was _his_ , even if he couldn’t touch him. _His_ moans and growls and panted breaths.

Harry’s hands unzipped his jeans before he noticed, and Draco quirked an eyebrow at him. “In my mouth, Auror.”

Draco dropped his head back, body one long line of hard, pale flesh, soft to the touch, but hot and unyielding.

Harry climbed up to kneel on the table behind Draco, fisting his cock over the other man’s open mouth, free hand knotted in blond hair. The tension broke more suddenly than it built, and Harry groaned as he painted Draco’s chin and mouth. 

Harry released his grip and stroked Draco’s hair back from his upturned face. Draco smirked and wiped his face with a finger, licking it clean.

“Filthy fucking mouth,” Harry panted, sitting back on his heels.

Draco snorted a laugh and slid toward him, off the dildo. He laid flat on his back, his head slotted between Harry’s denim-clad knees, and he sighed.

“You have no idea, _mon cochon_.” His arms slid up along Harry’s shins against the table, and he turned to kiss Harry’s inner thigh. “No idea, at all.”

Harry returned his lazy grin and leaned down to kiss him, upside down, awkward, messy, and perfect.

————————————

Hermione turned her mobile off and watched the screen go black. Looking around the room, she saw quite a few familiar faces, but it was definitely a different crowd than had been in Courtroom Ten last time. She held the button down on her mobile to turn it back on.

Several of the other Wizengamot members were fiddling with mobiles in their laps, as well, but with little discretion. The man who’d worn a tuxedo to Draco’s resentencing was absolutely glued to his. Likely placing bets on upcoming Harpies matches.

Shacklebolt had seen fit to supervise this hearing himself, thankfully. Codger had quit in a spectacularly public display of outrage, while Belinda had quietly resigned two weeks ago. They seemed to be at an impasse for leadership, and she kept being asked to speak. Gentle nudges into authority.

Adams was standing, presenting the last of the evidence they’d found at the Manor. Fifteen human bodies. Ten of them bore traces of Unforgivable curses. Eight of those bore traces of magic that matched Lucius Malfoy’s signature. The Kiss was inevitable.

They still didn’t know the identities of the deceased, but it didn’t really matter. No innocent person would use Unforgivables and hide the bodies.

Adams moved on to his last puzzle piece of evidence, and Hermione glanced down at her mobile screen. No new texts from Harry. She hadn’t really thought he’d send her pictures, but it sure would have made it more interesting.

Sitting in a mostly-empty room watching a werewolf talk about bones wasn’t entirely dull, but it was a far departure from whipping her mobile at Belinda and wallpapering the Wizengamot with sanctions alongside Supreme Mugwump Coehlo. Absently, she thought of the ICW library Portkey in her wallet. That trip was going to have to happen soon.

Someone sneezed, and she looked up to find Luna sitting primly on one of the long benches. She must have just recently snuck in. Her toes skimmed the floor in a soft rhythm, cobalt blue leather booties against the marble floor. She wore a black formal robe. Unusual for Luna, but what was ever usual about Luna?

Luna’s hair was wound in a chignon, and Hermione wondered if she ever braided it. Did Luna consider Draco important enough to warrant a public declaration? It seemed unlikely, but what would it mean if she did?

Draco had been forthcoming about the start of his relationship with Luna, but refused to talk about what they did together now. He’d shared the memory of hunting her, nearly killing her, and then having scorchingly hot blood bond sex with her on a dirt road. That had been… something. Draco was careful about bonding like that, so she doubted that was the mystery game. What kind of activities was Luna Lovegood-

“Councilwoman Granger, are you ready to call for a vote?” Shacklebolt’s voice drawled dully, but she startled anyway.

It was a redundant question. There was an assigned defendant sitting across from Adams, but he’d offered no argument. They hadn’t even bothered to bring Lucius in from Azkaban.

“Yes, we’re prepared.” She nodded to an assistant next to Shacklebolt, who opened a side door and pulled a cart into the room. It held three wooden boxes. The Wizengamot members each withdrew a scrap of parchment and their wands, making a mark and sending the notes drifting to the appropriate box.

A gentle snowstorm of sentencing, flakes swirling and flowing together. The box on the left, marked with a silver circle, accepted every piece of parchment. None drifted to the semi-circle-adorned box in the center, nor to the box on the right with a black circle.

The assistant wheeled the cart closer to Hermione, and she stood to step behind it. With a flick of her wand, the three boxes opened, and she inspected the contents as a formality.

“The Wizengamot votes unanimously to approve sentencing Lucius Abraxas Malfoy to the Dementor’s Kiss.”

The rhythmic slide of worn leather skimming over the marble floor was the only sound in the quiet room. Luna smiled, feet swinging.

—————————

Draco would have been lying if he’d claimed his ass wasn’t sore. But it was a good kind of sore, he thought with a sigh as his body relaxed into the warm stone of the ledge in the hot spring.

He shut his eyes in the darkness and let the water settle into the valleys of his body, lapping against the sides of his chest and peaks of his hips. This wouldn’t be his bedroom all winter, like it had for the past four. Ron had been livid when he’d heard that Draco had slept in the spring to stay warm. The atmospheric charms he’d brought over were heartbreakingly thoughtful, and Draco was looking forward to using them when the Ministry ward fell in a few days.

A rumble sounded from above, and he cracked an eye open. Stone upstairs split and tumbled, dust drifting into the light above the ladder. A mournful meow sounded from somewhere upstairs, followed by the softer rumble of Ron and Harry talking.

Ron was adding bedrooms. He’d added three last time, and that wasn’t going to be enough, so he’d take it upon himself to carve out a staircase and balcony over the inside of the front door. He’d said something about an outside balcony to the north and a retention pond and a lot of other things.

Draco smiled to himself. He didn’t care. Ron was building a fortress. Or a palace. A castle in a crag. Ron was casting off from the Weasley Burrow like a pirouetting maple seed in the wind. Spinning out to sink roots in new soil and stretch invincible arms to the sky, and Draco got to nest there.

Ron was building him a home, and Harry and Hermione would protect it, and they’d fill it with children. Children, and magic, and music, and food, and love.

And it would be perfect, because his ass hurt in the best way, and he was deliciously, perfectly tired and safe and warm and home.

——————————

_The dream started in fire, screaming, the shriek of an alarm, and a spray of cold water._

_The Truro Community Library’s children’s section was on fire. Or, more accurately, one tufted chair was smoldering and hissing in the downpour from the sprinkler system._

_Next to him, wide emerald eyes blinked up from behind damp lashes, and it struck him as insolent that they didn’t look the slightest bit guilty._

_“Papa, it was an accident,” her little voice tinkled, muffled by the spray of water._

_“The first two times were accidents, Ursella,” he said with a frown. She was barely up to his hip, but her attitude was adult-sized as she returned his frown. “_ Oisillon puissante _, they’re not going to let us come back for a fourth accident.”_

_She sniffed, and he realized she’d been crying the whole time, tears washed away under the spray. His gut sank, and he took her hand. She was too sensitive for such criticism, and he regretted his words._

_A wildly-waving arm near the front door caught his eye as they made their way through the room. Water sloshed around his feet, and books sat like abandoned dish sponges on tables in the main room._

_Harry stood in the doorway, a sopping Felix under his arm, and the twins behind him, heads together in conversation._

_“Again?” Harry asked as they approached._

_Draco nodded, and Ursella left his side for Harry, who scooped her up and put her on his hip._

_“It’ll get better, ‘Sella,” Harry said, giving her sodden curls a kiss. “I blew my Aunt Marge up like a balloon once.”_

_She giggled and clung to Harry’s shirt as they turned and walked out._

——————————

**Got reception down in Ten, Power Granger?**

_Sorry! Should have updated you an hour ago. Lucius is getting the Kiss. It was unanimous. Adams did great._

**Ok.  
Thanks.**

_Do you want me to come tell him?_

**Nah.  
Can you stop by my flat for my post?  
Should have some bills waiting.**

_Uhm. I’m kind of drunk.  
In the Atrium.  
It’s great_

**It’s 5:30 on a Tuesday, Granger.**

_It’s Friday somewhere.  
We are calling ourselves the Plaited Posse.  
I am the youngest member by a couple decades.  
They all have flasks  
I want a flask_

**You don’t sound drunk.**

_Just told a bunch of grandmas about your cock.  
Ilove these women harry  
and I love your cock_

**WHAT THE FUCK!  
WHY?!**

_talking about cocks, ovbiously. bad bitches with braids  
patricia has a wife AND a husband  
so there’s that_

**Good to know.  
I’ll get my own post, I guess.  
Need me to send Ron to get your soused ass home?  
He’s here blowing stuff up.**

_nooo i just told them about his freckles  
ALL his freckles  
Marcys gonna side-along me to Cardiff_

**Ok.  
Be safe.**

_boooooo  
no_

——————————

Draco rummaged through the very unMalfoy pile of clothes against the bedroom wall, goosebumps running up his wet arms. He was going to have to request a wardrobe or two with Ron’s next trip. He tucked the towel in tight around his waist and squatted down to dig for the yellow Cannons sweatshirt. 

How had adding one man to the household resulted in such a _mess_? Maybe it was the frequent disrobing.

“Hey,” Harry said softly, leaning against the bookcase behind Draco.

“Greetings,” Draco replied with a bewildered shrug. Just because Ron was in the other room, they were formally announcing their arrivals now?

Harry slid his mobile in the pocket of his dust-covered jeans. He and Ron had managed to clean up their mess before Draco had to kill them both, but neither of them had seen fit to _Tergio_ themselves yet. Harry’s black hair was practically grey with rock dust, and his glasses were streaked with it. It shouldn’t have been sexy, but he looked powerful and destructive.

“Uhm, you busy?”

Draco eyed him suspiciously and yanked his towel off, throwing it onto the bed. “Booked solid,” he replied, cupping himself.

Harry smiled wanly, and Draco frowned as his seduction fell flat. He wiggled into the sweatshirt and pulled on pajama pants. “What’s wrong, Harry?”

“Uhm, ‘Mione just texted.”

“And?”

“They sentenced Lucius to the Kiss. Tomorrow morning. It was unanimous.”

Unexpected relief coursed through Draco’s chest. A breath he’d been holding for decades without knowing it. The room swam, and Harry stepped up in front of him, fingertips on his upper arms.

“Good,” he croaked. “That’s it, then.”

He smiled softly to himself and leaned his forehead onto Harry’s dusty shoulder. His Legilimancy traced Harry’s mind, gently offering up the dream he’d just had. The girl with his eyes, with his accidental magical outbursts. Harry’s barrier dipped, and he stilled under Draco’s touch as he watched.

Curtains on the Malfoys, Draco thought. No fortune, no estate, no blood relatives. All of it, gone. Finally, blissfully, mournfully gone. A scorched field.

He drew a slow, deep breath and wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist. A scorched field, indeed, but one with hidden seeds in the dirt. Seeds waiting for spring and the wet warmth of thawing earth.

Two little seeds waiting for spring, in particular.

——————————

Ron scratched at the coating of rock dust on the back of a hand while he waited for the resident Seer to make his proclamation. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous about showing the ring to Draco. Maybe it was the name he’d thrown out, _CrystalEyes_ , and Draco’s tight smile and ambivalent nod. It wasn’t a great name for a jewelry line, Ron had to admit. 

“Huh,” Draco huffed, blinking rapidly. “Yeah, it works.”

He slid it back to Ron over the shiny tabletop. It looked like it’d just been polished that day. Draco stared blankly in Ron’s general direction, and he waved a hand in the other man’s field of vision.

“Still in there, Malfoy?”

“Huh?” Draco blinked at him. “Yeah. Uhm. Excuse me.”

He pushed his chair away from the table and made for the bedroom, both hands running through blond hair as he walked. The man looked thoroughly spooked. Ron picked the ring up and tried to divine something from it. The polished quartz just sat there gleaming in the light from the fireplace.

The clatter and soft splash of Harry climbing up out of the spring caught his attention.

“Did you hear that?” Harry said with a wicked grin.

Ron shook his head.

Harry picked a towel up from the floor next to the ladder and wrecked his hair with it. “He hit the distance tether a couple seconds ago, leaned against it, then fell into the laundry pile when I came up.”

Ron went to speak, but Harry held a finger up to shush him as he hid his chuckle in the towel. Muttered curses in French wafted from the bedroom.

“You alright, Dray?” Harry wrapped the towel around his waist and headed to the bedroom grinning wildly.

Ron smiled softly watching him. It was the happiest he’d seen his best friend in… ever, really. A snort came from the bedroom, followed by a shriek, and Ron barked a laugh. Damned if they weren’t kind of cute together.

Draco sauntered out from between the bookcases, hair mussed, a giggle restrained by his grinning lips between his teeth. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, but his cheeks stayed unusually pink.

“Same vision as the crystal ball in the wall,” he said calmly. “Consider your experiment verified.” He glanced back at Harry in the bedroom and quirked an eyebrow in challenge. “You need a better name, though, Ron.”

“Yeah, I’ve gone through a bunch of different-“

“Vicus,” Draco said absently, eyes still on the bedroom.

“Vicious?”

“Vicus. Latin for quartz.”

Harry trotted up to the table in pajama bottoms and a dark green t-shirt. His lips were slick and rosy, like he’d just been thoroughly snogged. Harry avoided Draco’s gaze with a sheepish smile. His mobile lay in the middle of the table, and he checked the screen before pocketing it.

“Oh,” Harry said to Draco. “Do you mind if we go to my flat tomorrow? I need to get my post and some other things.”

Draco shrugged. “I’m not eating from that restaurant again.”

Ron stuck the ring back in his pocket and rose to leave with muttered goodbyes. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and glanced back at the two men. Draco sat on the edge of the table, and Harry stood between his knees as they discussed their plans. 

Definitely cute, Ron thought. And distracted, thankfully.

“Harry Potter, private residence,” he whispered to the Floo.

He had a Head Auror’s sheets to wash before tomorrow.

\----------------------------

Draco had gone still and unusually quiet under Harry’s lips and hands. He slid his hands up to neutral territory at his waist, and drew back from the soft skin of Draco’s neck.

Draco leaned back on his hands, still perched on the edge of the table. He stared vacantly over Harry’s shoulder, and Harry waited.

Grey eyes squinted in doubt before he spoke. “Could Adams take pictures of Lucius getting the Kiss?”

“What?”

“Pictures. On his mobile. Like you took of me. And of a certain cock, once upon a time.”

“I… maybe. But why?”

Draco leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered in Harry’s ear. “I want to see if the Dementors can even get a soul out of the bastard,” Draco murmured, and _snorted_ in Harry’s ear.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

_À Baiser le Père_

Aaaahhhh, LUCY, did you slip it tongue?  
Did the Dementor hold you tight?

Did it cup your balls and snog you right?  
It figures, in a backward, prophetic way.  
You’d die how you refused to live.

In someone’s arms, mid-embrace.  
Affections left to give.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************

Ursella Fornax Granger

Gather round, O children mine-  
URSELLA, GET DOWN FROM THERE!

to hear the story of the time-  
URSELLA, DON’T BURN THAT CHAIR!

that Papa tried to swim the Rhine.  
URSELLA, YOU CUT MUM’S HAIR?!

Shh, I’m sorry that I raised my voice.  
URSELLA. I swear.

You can’t just hit them cuz they’re boys.  
Ursella, a constant scare.

Shh, next time, make a better choice?  
“Ursella.” My “little bear.”

DLM 2016 Truro Community Library  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	37. Fucking Soho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mental health warnings: Mentions of historical alcohol abuse, infidelity, wildly irresponsible sex, ambivalence to living. 1998-99 was not a good time for Draco Malfoy.
> 
> Medical warnings: Mention of historical anaphylaxis and needles(medical), glossed-over depiction of uncomplicated childbirth (happy story), at-length but imperfect discussion of STI/HIV like real-life adults.
> 
> Surprise, Draco! Harry fudged the parole paperwork and you're a free man tomorrow.  
> Surprise, Harry! Draco's sexual history is gonna make you a lot less excited.  
> Surprise, Hermione! Ron fantasizes about knocking you up.  
> Surprise, Ron! Hermione thinks it's hot.
> 
> Surprise, Reader! This chapter is a solid hour read. But there's Drarry sex. Finally.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Way, Way, Waaaayfaring

Plot a map and set a path; set sail away from home.  
Pop the cap and light a match; give up all you’ve known.

Jump the broom or take off soon; really out of options.  
Torch the room or play bridegroom; little more than auctions.

DLM 2001 Durmstrang Institute  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Florian & Bots, 2021  
*********************************

Harry was packing, and Draco was laying in bed, not panicking. Harry was packing, and Draco Malfoy was not going to have a meltdown about it. Not that he didn’t have very good reasons for a brief foray into irrationality today.

The crystal ball and Ron’s ring had shown him the same thing. Magnus Falk, naked and tousled, asleep in a bed with a delicate cut between his fingers. Rather specific. Rather enough to panic about.

In addition, Lucius had gotten the Kiss at dawn. That alone was a good enough reason go hide in bed and cry, but it didn’t upset him like it should have. Relieved him, in a guilty, greasy way, as had Narcissa’s death. It was like mourning the end of a plague, or the removal of a malignancy. A welcome loss of life.

But Harry was packing up his laundry, stuffing it haphazardly into duffel bags, and that was most unwelcome. Harry straightened, the floor now clear, and smiled at Draco. Harry’s grin felt like it splatted onto Draco’s cheek and slid off, no trace of humor lingering. 

“You’re packing a bit early, _mon coeur_ ,” Draco said cooly, curled up around a pillow.

Harry’s grin faded. “Yeah, but if we’re going to my flat, I’m going to drop off my dirty laundry so I can wash it this weekend. I don’t want to waste a trip.”

“You’re dragging me back to your flat again this weekend to watch you wash clothes?” Draco buried his face in the pillow. Harry’s pillow. It reeked of him in the most glorious way.

“No… You can stay here.” Harry shook his head softly, not understanding Draco’s confusion.

“Tether, Head Auror,” Draco mumbled into the Potter-scented cotton.

“Dray, your parole is up tomorrow evening.” He shouldered one of the bags and bent down for the other. “Friday at 5:00, you’re a free man.” 

Draco’s chest froze, and panic fought its way up his throat. “Oh.”

“I fudged the paperwork so the sentence started the morning of the day it was passed, and maybe worked it so it was over at the end of business for the preceding week.”

“Oh.” Draco swallowed against the tightness in his throat. Of course Harry had made his stay as short as possible. Who was Draco Malfoy to bed and _keep_ the Head Auror?

Harry should have had four more nights in his bed before he could move back to his flat. No, Draco thought, frowning, _fuck that_. Harry Potter should have four more _decades_ in his bed. 

Harry hoisted the bags onto the bed next to Draco, checking the side pockets and zipping them. He looked excited to be leaving. Maybe he was. What was a mineshaft in Cornwall compared to _Fucking Soho_?

But he couldn’t just _leave_. Except that he could. And he was. And it wasn’t okay.

Harry smiled down at him, beatific. “Let’s go.”

——————————

“Hey, ‘Mione, you got an extra toothbrush?” Ron holler-mumbled from the hall.

“No, just use mine and Scourgify it afterward,” she grumbled, still half-asleep. “Gently.”

Ron didn’t reply, nor did she hear him brushing his teeth, and her eyebrows furrowed above closed eyes.

“So…” Ron drawled from the doorway. “Felix.”

Hermione smiled softly and cracked an eye. Ron was watching her from around the edge of the doorframe, a nude shoulder peeking into view. 

Of all the dreams Draco had shared, that one was probably her favorite, but perhaps just because it was at Hogwarts. Or perhaps because of Draco’s patient, firm handling of the situation. Downright judicial.

“A Slytherin,” she replied excitedly, sliding up to sit in her bed. “I’m glad he’s going to kill that squid. It always scared me.”

“I’m gonna buy him something for killing that monster, but pretend to not know,” Ron said with a nod to himself. “No, pretend you disapprove.”

“Deal,” she said with a grin.

Ron lingered in the doorway, watching her with his lips caught between his teeth.

“I think about him a lot, ‘Mione,” he said softly, followed by a thick swallow. “And… sometimes in bed with you.”

She watched Ron’s neck turn red as he hesitated, waiting for her reaction. It took her a moment to catch his meaning. He didn’t lay awake at night and daydream alone. He was thinking about kids when he was _with_ her. Holy hell.

Emboldened, he left the door frame to crawl onto the foot of the bed, all freckles and cornflower blue eyes and warm skin. She flipped the blanket off and let him hover over her bare legs, still on all fours.

“You think about getting me pregnant while you have sex with me, Ronald Weasley?”

He was either avoiding her gaze or studying her breasts. Equally likely scenarios, really.

“Mm hm.”

She leaned forward to nuzzle into his hair. “I have a few times, too.”

“Hm,” he said in a contemplative huff as he sat on her legs. “When do you suppose we ought to do more than practice?”

His cock rested against her knees as he straddled them. Tantalizingly close, but would it be inappropriate to touch him? He looked entirely too serious.

“I’ve texted with Pansy about it, actually,” she said with a touch of hesitation. It was a little dodgy of her to go about mapping out family planning without consulting… well, the rest of the family.

Ron shot her a quizzical look. “Pansy?”

“She’s a MediWitch. Women’s health, mostly.”

Ron snorted a soft laugh. “Figures.”

“Yeah, she said something about not wanting to handle naked men at work any more than she does at home,” Hermione said, glossing over the details of the enlightening conversation. Whatever Pansy and Draco did together, it apparently didn’t involve his cock. “Anyway, she said for law school timing purposes, it would be reasonable to start trying the summer after next.”

“Weasleys aren’t known for having to _try_ , you know.”

He slid forward, straddling her hips, and her hands drifted down to cup him.

“Maybe it’s because they practice so much.”

He smirked, and relaxed with a soft hum as her fingers wrapped around his hardening length. “Wanna pretend to make a baby, ‘Mione?”

“Yes,” she said curtly. “Yes, I do.”

——————————

Draco was too quiet, and Harry wondered if he should have just nagged Hermione again to get his post. London simply wasn’t very Draco-friendly. He’d let out a startled squeak when an ambulance drove by, flinched as Harry’s neighbor’s door slammed shut, and slunk behind Harry down to his post box and back without so much as a word.

Overall, Draco looked like a Crup that was likely to piss on the floor at the next loud noise. He’d settled in on the futon without so much as a harsh word about the ugly sofa. Nor had he said anything about the missing cock sketch on Harry’s fridge, but he kept looking at the empty spot. Harry was waiting for him to ask, so he could tell him it was currently decorating the Head Auror office, but he didn’t bring it up.

“Want to get breakfast in a bit? There’s a French café down the block,” Harry said, hoping Draco would perk up. “The coffee’s good.”

The back of Draco’s head rested on the top of the black futon, platinum hair stark against the fabric.

“Sure.”

Harry sighed heavily. It was too much like the last time Draco had been in his flat. Sitting on the futon, despondent, then hallucinating on his bathroom floor and having what Harry would have to classify as some kind of psychotic episode.

He scooped up the assortment of envelopes and mailers and sat down on the futon across from Draco, sorting the papers into piles.

“You okay?”

Draco shrugged, one shouldered and distant. “Just thinking.”

Harry nodded. He had plenty to think about after hearing Lucius had gotten the Kiss a few hours ago.

Harry’s palms sweat lightly as he found the postcard he’d been expecting. _Greek Street Clinic_. He flipped it over and slid his wallet out of his back pocket, extracting the reminder card he’d been carrying for weeks.

He could have called over a week ago, and it was stupid to be so nervous. It was an automated system, for fuck’s sake. It wasn’t like some grouchy nurse was going to answer and yell at him for having a boyfriend.

He took his mobile out and dialed the number, fidgeting as the recording listed the options. His bouncing knee shook the futon, and Draco looked at him, mildly annoyed. Grey eyes drifted down to the card and postcard on the futon.

“Ordering new glasses?” Draco asked, just above a whisper.

Harry shook his head and took the mobile from his ear to enter his code number. His gaze lingered on Draco, so uncertain and hesitant in front of him. 

He was a Healer. How much did he know about this? How much was relegated to Muggles, and how much affected wizards?

He ran the corner of the postcard under his thumbnail. Did wizard kids grow up with Prophet headlines about HIV? Did they hear about it on the news every night for years? Did they see the posters? Did they have any idea?

It wasn’t fair, Harry thought. He’d seen Draco’s medical records from Azkaban, so he hadn’t been worried for his own sake. But Draco didn’t have any reassurances that Harry hadn’t used his dick as a Soho collection swab.

On impulse, he put his mobile on speaker phone as a recording from one of the younger nurses started. He watched Draco’s face as the woman’s disaffected voice rattled off Harry’s name, followed by a short litany of diseases, all punctuated by “Negative”.

Harry ended the call as the recording clicked over to info about contacting the clinic for further questions. Somehow, he was more nervous after receiving a clean bill of health than he had been before.

Draco merely stared at him, face blank. “Oh.”

“I go in a couple times a year. I just… I don’t know, maybe it’s a Muggle thing? Kind of a custom? Especially for men?”

“Oh.” Draco repeated, with the barest hint of lift to his eyebrows.

“Anyway, I just figured you might want to know. I’m not particularly worried. Your Azkaban infirmary files had similar info in them.”

Draco swallowed thickly and looked away from Harry, out the window. Looking at nothing rather than him. Draco’s chest rose and fell more quickly, and long fingers curling and stretching over his thighs.

“Mungo’s has more recent ones. Pansy could have brought over copies, had you asked.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m really not worried.”

Draco huffed a bitter laugh and ran his thumbnail down the seam in the denim along his inner thigh. “If the Ministry’s records included Durmstrang files, that should have concerned you immensely.” 

Acid rose in Harry’s throat. He and Hermione had thoroughly enjoyed Draco’s come on many occasions, and it hadn’t occurred to him that the Azkaban records would be incomplete. Visions of needles, phlebotomy tubes, and blister packs of pills flitted through his imagination.

“What do you mean?” A chill skimmed his eyes, and he flinched. “Don’t fucking use Legilimency on me, Draco. _Not now._ ”

“Oh, sorry,” he sighed softly. “But no, nothing like that. I am not a vector of disease. Currently. And I checked you thoroughly when I Healed your shoulder. Took care of a budding sinus infection, too.” His tone was off. Monotonous. Dead.

“Dray, you’re changing the topic, and I don’t love it. What happened at Durmstrang?”

Draco’s lips turned down in a soft frown at Harry’s word choice, and he regretted it immediately. It was a bit of a low blow to say he _didn’t_ love something when he couldn’t get the words out when he _did_.

“I… gave Magnus syphilis,” he said, eyes downcast to avoid Harry’s scrutiny.

“Oh,” Harry murmured, his turn for vacant responses. Draco understood the Muggle terminology in the message on his mobile, then. 

Draco pulled his lips between his teeth, in no rush to speak. Harry bit his own lip, mulling over the admission. Draco’s interaction with Cal Onasis in Harry’s office had given him at least a peek of Draco’s life shortly after the war. And if Falk and Draco had gone to the same kind of parties Cal did, it wasn’t so surprising, maybe. And who was to say which of them gave it to the other, really?

“St. Petersburg?” Harry said, more than asked.

“No, surprisingly.” Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Later,” he whispered. His finger and thumb pressed against his eyes, and Harry suspected he was hiding tears. “I cheated on him, Harry. Spectacularly.”

Harry’s mouth opened, but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. He wanted to argue. To tell Draco he wasn’t the kind of person who would do that. Or that Draco didn’t know any better. Or to say Falk deserved it. But maybe he was wrong.

He tucked his feet, settling in cross-legged, fingers laced in his lap. Harry blew out a slow breath. “What happened?”

Draco mimicked his position, tucking his feet, and crossing long, denim-clad legs, facing Harry. His elbows rested on his thighs, face hidden in his hands. “I was an atrocious partner, is what happened, Harry. Was? Am? Will be? I don’t know.”

Even though Draco was studiously examining his own hands, Harry fought to keep a neutral face. Had Draco actually done something horrible? Or had Falk convinced him he had?

“The whole story, Dray,” Harry said gently. “From what the two of you have told me, the Malfoys showed up to Durmstrang in ’99, you met Falk, apparently went to a few unsavory parties together, and lived a life of domestic bliss with a lot of hot sex till Narcissa and the Ministry ruined it.”

Draco’s long fingers scrubbed his face, lingering to press against his closed eyelids again.

“Gods, Harry,” he sighed. “Fuck. Just- I’m not proud of any of it. Please, just- Just keep that in mind?” He swallowed thickly and looked up, slate eyes brimming with unshed tears. “This is not a fairy tale, _mon coeur_.”

“I suspect there were at least a few happy endings,” Harry replied with a smirk. It earned him a lop-sided, tired smile.

“So, there was an old Death Eater safe house in St. Petersburg. We got there in October of ’98. It was awful. A moldy, leaking, rotten townhouse infested with rats.”

His fingers slid down over his nose, as if blocking out the memory of the smell. Harry’s heart dropped, and he fought to keep his face from showing it. He’d really thought he’d seen all the misery Draco had lived through, but he’d only seen what his _parents_ had done to him.

“Narcissa was in a constant manic rage, so I made myself scarce as much as I could. In general, Russia was hospitable to Malfoy political views. Not so much to gay men, though.”

Harry nodded in understanding. He hadn’t heard much differently now, nine years later.

“I met some lovely young wizards outside the Mariinsky after their performance. Unfair, really, wizards outperforming Muggles on stage.”

Harry’s lips tensed, fighting a smile. “You fell in with a gang of gay wizard ballerinas?”

“ _Danseurs_ ,” Draco scoffed gently. “But yes. They threw _very_ interesting parties in a townhouse in the Admiralteysky District. Often with exceptionally fit men from the Russian and European Quidditch leagues.”

“So that’s how you met Falk?”

“Yes, I’d-“

“Wait, you said he called you a slut the first time you met. I thought it was because of your Blood Magic scars, but it wasn’t just that, was it?.”

Draco’s shoulders slumped, and Harry regretted his interruption.

“It was both. I suppose they were orgies as much as parties. But I was baking a cake at the time.”

Harry stared at him, wishing he’d look up from the futon, where his fingers picked idly at stitched tufting. “I guess that explains why Cal would be around. But why the hell were you baking a cake at an orgy, Dray?”

Draco shrugged, half-hearted. “The Scandinavian League showed up, and they were big, and loud, and there was a kitchenette in the basement.” He straightened and ventured a glance at Harry. “And I wanted cake, but I couldn’t find my clothes to go out and buy one. So I was naked, very drunk, and trying to whisk sugar and eggs with a potato masher when Magnus came down.”

“And he proceeded to call you a slut and… woo you?”

“It was a compliment of sorts. And he just sat in a club chair and watched. It’s not every day you get to watch an inebriated war criminal ruin a cake completely starkers.”

“You’re not a war criminal, Dray.”

“And it didn’t end up being a cake, but I broke a lot of eggs, didn’t I? Maybe I’m not a war criminal, but the Ministry burned down a _school_ trying to catch my not-war-criminal arse. _A fucking school_ , Harry.”

“Fair enough.” Harry nodded in acquiescence. “So you got together over a nude bakeoff at an orgy full of ballerinas and Quidditch players?”

Draco smiled bitterly. “That’s obscenely wholesome, _mon coeur_. You overestimate the civility of men who have little left in life but each other’s bodies.” His fingers gave up on teasing threads from the futon and took turns finding snags in his cuticles. “I spent three or four nights a week there. Lucius would follow the Trace in my signet ring to find me wherever I ended up in the morning. With whomever. Hell of a way to wake up.”

“I...” Harry started, but trailed off. Again, he wanted to argue, and tell him that the Draco he knew wouldn’t _do_ that. But it made sense. It fit with some of the warnings Falk had given him about alcohol, and stress, and sex. It made sense that Falk had given him advice on looking after Draco, if this is what Falk had seen. “You said Falk didn’t show me an accurate picture. I thought you meant he made himself look like a better boyfriend than he was.”

Draco hummed noncommittally as he glanced out the window, eyes unfocused. “No, you assumed that, Harry. He generously omitted the right mess I’d made of myself.”

Harry followed his gaze out the window, squinting in the early morning light as pieces fell into place. Falk’s words came back to him in a rush: **”I’ll show you what he had become”, “…memories of him at his best”, “…challenging to tame and keep”, “…get carried away and hurt himself”, “don’t ask for his monogamy”, “don’t leave him alone after sex”, “…will probably always have concurrent male and female partners.”**

Bloody hell, Harry thought. Falk had handed him the metaphorical leash Onasis had referred to, and he’d managed to turn it all around in his head to make Falk look bad. 

“That’s why Cal said he took you for dead,” Harry muttered, followed by his own soft gasp at the weight of his words. “And why he said he thought Falk would give up.”

“I was in love with living, let’s say. But not so much with staying alive.” Draco’s teeth worried the skin on his thumb. “But no, Magnus and I didn’t get together that night. He came down because he heard me thinking up a song about Snitches up my arse. Then he _complimented_ my scars, watched me get cake batter in my hair, and left.

We crossed paths at a few more parties. He never talked to me, but sometimes he’d let me sit on his lap.” Draco’s breath shuddered in, and he ventured a wary look up to Harry’s waiting gaze. Soft fondness filled his grey eyes.

Harry wanted to reach out and take his hands, or hug him, or do _anything_ but sit and listen to how Draco had spent the year after the war in a slow self-destruct sequence.

“You went from sitting on his lap to moving in with him, then?” Harry joked, but Draco’s soft smile dropped off, and Harry regretted the jest.

“The Ministry breached the safe house one night. Lucius and Narcissa took off. I hid in the dancers’ townhouse and consumed truly heroic amounts of vodka.” His face fell into a hard mask, and he clasped his hands in his lap. “Mag showed up later with his Quidditch friends, and I woke up in his cottage at Durmstrang.”

Harry shook his head. That didn’t make a damn lick of sense. “Did he fucking kidnap you? Or did you run off with an older man you didn’t know? ”

“Harry. _Merde._ Fine.” Draco’s facade fell, and his face landed in his hands again. “Kind of. He was having a polite conversation with the Latvian head coach, and I poured my naked self into his lap and loudly demanded he fuck me till I stop breathing, okay?”

“Oh, Merlin,” Harry whispered. “And he…”

“He said something Magnusey, like ’Seekers often need finding’, threw his coat over me, very graciously jerked me off, and held me till I fell asleep. Proud fucking moment, Potter. Happy to relive it for you.”

Harry hesitated, recognizing Draco’s rising vitriol for what it was. Pain. Embarrassment. “I had the maturity to wait till I was twenty to do destructive shit,” Harry said primly, which earned him a withering smile from Draco. “Did your parents follow your Trace to Durmstrang?”

Draco nodded and sighed. “I got two miserably sober days in Mag’s bed before they breezed in and demanded sanctuary. Look, Harry. Nothing about my relationship with Magnus was ever, or will ever, be normal. _Normal_ people meet at a pub and go on dates and fall in love and get married and have kids.”

Harry smirked. “Weasleys.”

Draco scrubbed his palms on his jeans and fixed Harry with a stern glare. “ _Normal_ people don’t get salvaged from orgies to ride out withdrawal in a stranger’s bed. And _normal_ people don’t repay that man’s kindness by fucking his former teammates in his bed while he teaches eleven year-olds how to fly on a broom."

Harry swallowed thickly at the mental image, but Draco took a deep breath and continued. “ _Normal_ people don’t spend months hurting someone at every fucking opportunity just because they can’t wrap their head around being loved.”

“So, no, Harry.” Tears finally welled in Draco’s eyes, and Harry heard the other man’s throat click as he swallowed. “Death, disease, and destruction come from loving me. Not happy fucking endings.”

Harry fought back a sniffle he didn’t feel he’d earned. This wasn’t his pain. It wasn’t his, but he could help with it. He’d seen himself do it.

He slid forward and threw his arms over Draco’s shoulders, forcing their chests together. His breath hitched as he waited for a response, and exhaled as Draco’s arms scooped under his.

Harry’s hand pressed Draco’s face onto the top of his shoulder, and Draco’s fingers splayed over Harry’s shoulder blades. A lone sob broke from Draco’s throat, and a tight whine followed as he tried to maintain control.

Harry pressed his lips against Draco’s temple, and his composure broke. Ragged sobs wrenched from his throat and he clung to Harry. He came up for air and Harry pushed him back down. Harry’s strong arms circled his shoulders and held him tight as he smothered a groaning howl in Harry’s shoulder.

“Shh, Dray. I’ve got you.” Harry whispered as his sobs turned into tight, shuddering breaths, and he searched for the only familiar words. “Home by snow.”

Draco clung to him and fell apart.

——————————————

“Oh, _gods_ , Ron!” Hermione shouted into his shoulder as her body tightened around his cock. “ _Fuck!_ ”

The heavy heat in his hips shattered, and he came with her, bodies moving gently in time. He pressed his lips to her forehead as he dropped down to his elbows above her. “Love you, ‘Mione.”

She sighed, long and sated. “Love you too, Dad.”

“Gross,” Ron huffed. “My grandparents did that.”

“Mine, too. Did your grandparents have sex on kitchen tables?”

“I mean, maybe. Why?”

“Because I think the table at Wheal Elvan is unattended today.”

Ron gasped in mock shock. “Filthy, filthy Wizengamot. Let’s hurry. Gotta be at the store before noon.”

“Let’s go.” She laid a quick kiss on his beard and nudged him away with her hips.

“Wait till you see the bloody _balcony_ I blasted out in there.”

“You _what_?”

——————————————

Turned out sobbing oneself raw on an Auror’s shoulder was more exhausting than Seer dreams let on. The coffee tasted faintly of chicory, as if the person who’d made it didn’t believe he could want plain coffee. Let alone four cups of it.

 _Fucking Soho_ , Draco thought, tearing the ends off of an incredibly pretentious Nutella croissant. Whatever Nutella was, neither it nor the croissant deserved this fate. Nor did Draco deem them fit for consumption.

Harry, by contrast, had obliterated a small cheese and fruit plate and ordered an omelette as a _side dish_. If the black coffee in Draco’s stomach could have curdled, it would have. He nudged his plate toward Harry, ready to admit he’d never intended to eat the croissant.

“Not hungry?” Harry plucked one of the broken pastry points off the plate and popped it in his mouth with an appreciative hum.

A waitress walked by and winked at Harry. “Finally got you into our _pâtisseries_ , eh?”

She patted Harry on the shoulder as she passed. They knew him here. Here, in _Fucking Soho_ , where Harry Potter lived, and fit in, and had casual acquaintances who knew he liked extra cantaloupe on his fruit plate.

 _Fucking Soho_ , where Harry greeted people through shop windows and Draco trailed behind him like a blond Dementor in jeans. Draco watched a faint sheen of oil swirl over the top of his coffee, and hoped it was from the beans, not grease from a previous customer’s flat white.

Harry moaned, low and entirely inappropriately for public, and Draco glanced up to find him licking Nutella out of the croissant. Tongue-fucking it, really. Shamelessly rimming pastries in public.

“I hope you don’t eat like that on Diagon, where people know you.”

“Mm?” Harry looked up, tongue curling into his mouth with a dab of chocolate on the tip.

“Elegant, Potter.”

It was abstractly arousing, and he wouldn’t have begrudged that croissant if it begged for more. The image from the crystal balls flitted through his memory again. Magnus, nude, partially-covered by a sheet in a rumpled bed. _Merde_. Draco lifted the white porcelain cup in his fingertips, taking a tentative sip.

Harry swallowed a loud gulp of tea and cleared his throat, fixing Draco with a wary expression. “So… Why would the Durmstrang infirmary have had records about… that?”

Draco took another sip to hide his wide eyes and let Harry’s question hang in the air. He couldn’t think of a time or place he _did_ want to discuss that. Ever.

“I mean, you and Falk can both…” He looked around and waggled his fingers demonstrably. “You know.”

With a slow sigh, Draco gently set the cup back on his saucer. The white behind the scrolling roses didn’t match the mug. A set that was neither matched nor mismatched, but somewhere in the failed in-between.

“Blood Magic Healing doesn’t work on bloodstream infections, which, at that point, it was.” He rotated the cup to line the handle up with a break in the roses on the saucer. “And yes, I’m aware I was lucky it was something curable. Even if the shots were unpleasant.”

Harry’s lips quirked up in a weak smile, and Draco fought a scowl in reply. “Muggle medicine?”

Draco nodded, tight-lipped. Harry didn’t need to know the details. He didn’t need to know Magnus had had an anaphylactic reaction to the penicillin in front of him. He didn’t need to know that the MediWitches had panicked and Draco had been certain he’d killed the only person to love him. 

Harry didn’t need to know Draco had spent the following week terror-vomiting while waiting for the rest of their blood test results. He didn’t need to know about the months of sobbing apologies he’d heaped upon an eminently forgiving Magnus. 

At some point, his story was Magnus’ story, and Harry didn’t have a right to it. Unless Magnus was part of his future, as well.

“That’s what I was going to study at Kos.” Draco plucked the other broken-off croissant tip off the otherwise empty plate and popped it in his mouth. “The Maledictus division started researching pathogens in the 80’s.”

The scrap of croissant was airy decadence, and he regretted passing it off to the filo dough fellator in front of him.

“Oh,” Harry said softly, as if Draco’s dashed future had never occurred to him. Maybe it hadn’t. “Are you going to visit?”

“I suppose,” Draco said with a shrug. “Might see if Pans can come along. Make herself useful.”

Harry hadn’t been smiling, but somehow his face still dropped. Had he expected an invitation to Greece? Like a new Head Auror could take a vacation right after taking the position? And he would hate it. At least Pansy would appreciate the Asklepion. 

“She doesn’t strike me as the type to turn down a free island getaway,” Harry said with a hollow chuckle. “Probably a dab hand at posh travel itineraries.”

Draco wrapped his fingers around the teacup, soaking up what may have been the last of the warmth provided by the cooling coffee.

“She’s a MediWitch, Harry,” Draco said, lifting the cup. “Kos would be a professional trip for her, as would attending the twins’ birth in Slovenia with me and Magnus.”

He watched Harry as Draco steadily drained the rest of the coffee. The gears in Harry Potter’s head were nearly audible as he put pieces together. Pansy Parkinson was more than Draco’s drunk birthday friend. Magnus was a permanent fixture. _Harry_ was the new addition to Draco’s life, not them.

“Huh,” Harry huffed. “Didn’t know she even worked. How long will you be gone?”

Harry’s finger collected flaky croissant crumbs, pressing idly around the plate in no particular pattern. A nervous gesture more than a purposeful one.

“A month or two,” Draco said with a too-casual shrug, torn between enjoying Harry’s anxiety and wanting to soothe him. It was immature, and he hated himself just a bit for wanting to throw Harry off-kilter.

Harry’s brow furrowed, and Draco cringed. “With Magnus.”

“Some of it.”

“Dray, you…” Harry frowned, licking the crumbs off his thumb. “Nevermind.”

“You don’t trust me alone with him,” Draco accused, tone deceptively light for as heavy as his heart felt.

Harry rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. “It’s not that. Not entirely. It’s just… you never really broke up, did you?”

Draco shook his head gently. “No. But he moved on. We both did.”

“Did you?” Harry stated, more than asked.

The teacup had a faint line of oil just below the rim. A remnant from someone else’s drink that had gone cold and congealed. A mismatched, out of place, soiled vessel.

Harry waved to the waitress who’d patted his shoulder, gestured to the empty croissant plate, held up two fingers, and jerked a thumb toward the door with a nod.

“Let’s get some things and get out of the city, hm?” Harry asked, rising from the table.

Draco shrugged, one-shouldered. “ _Comme tu veux._ ”

———————————

“No, Ron, really. I do love it.” Hermione stood at the edge of the new balcony and looked down into the kitchen and den. It wasn’t so high, really, but the floor below was solid, unforgiving granite.

Ron’s arms wrapped around her waist. “I’ll layer so many cushioning charms on this place, you’ll think you’re wearing big fuzzy slippers all the time.”

“Are you sure that’ll be enough?”

He pressed into her, pinning her hips against the carved stone railing. His hands wandered up to cup her breasts, and she leaned her head back onto his shoulder.

“It’ll be more than enough. I put so many on Bill and Fleur’s chalet that they couldn’t crack eggs for breakfast their first morning.”

“Well, that does sound thorough.” Hermione turned in his arms. “Why did you blast extra bedrooms?”

Ron grinned and squeezed her tight. “Thought the four of us might want two bedrooms sometimes.”

She hummed happily, lips against his neck. “Probably. That implies that sometimes all four of us… don’t?”

“You _are_ a very itchy witch,” Ron wrapped hands around her shoulders and held her out at arm’s length, and she pouted. “But also, extra bedrooms for grandkids.”

Hermione barked a laugh. “Whatever you say, Grandad.”

“Seriously. Stop that, Granger.”

“Hey, add a proper loo sometime. Not all of us can just go outside.”

“Duly noted.”

——————————

If London were a Dementor, the Whole Foods in _Fucking Soho_ would be its gaping, soul-stealing maw, Draco thought, dusting croissant flakes from his jeans onto the futon. 

_Why_ had they stacked fruit like that? They had to know the pieces in the middle of the carefully-arranged pyramid would rot faster because of it. And what the _fuck_ was a smoothie? It sounded like a sex act. A boring one.

But they had nice chicken, fresh tarragon, excellent mushrooms, and sweet, yellow carrots, so maybe they were just bad with fruit. Even if the fruit Harry had bought looked rather good. The fruit he had undoubtedly bruised in the process of lugging it all back to his flat.

Harry was on one knee in front of his open fridge, restocking it for his triumphant bachelor pad return, and curiosity finally got the better of Draco. He rose to kneeling, hips against the backrest of the futon, swallowing a bite of croissant.

“You disposed of the Cock Ness monster?” Draco gestured to the spot on the freezer door where his sketch of Harry’s thumb and cock had been.

Harry peeked out from the edge of the fridge door, emerald eyes glinting. “It’s in a frame on the back of the door of the _Head_ Auror’s office. Seemed appropriate.”

Something in Draco’s chest loosened, and he licked Nutella off his lip. Harry hadn’t thrown the sketch away, but promoted it.

Draco’s groin pressed against the back of the futon, and he spread his knees a bit for balance. “Shacklebolt will love erotic art on the DMLE walls, _mon coeur_.” 

A drawer inside the fridge slid shut with a clunk, and Harry closed the door and stood, gathering up empty bags. He wadded the thin plastic bags slowly, wrapping them around each other in layers and smoothing the crinkled handles under. 

_Stalling_ , Draco thought, licking his fingers clean. But about what? Nothing good, from the pinched worry around his eyes.

Harry licked his lips and set the wad of bags next to the kitchen sink. “Why did you go to Ballycastle that day?”

Draco’s thumb lingered between his lips, sucking the last of the butter and Nutella off. The tightness in his chest was back with a vengeance. His tongue felt slick against the pad of his thumb as he tried to remember exactly why he’d taken the Azkaban Floo to the Stadium, but Harry spoke first. 

“I was supposed to tell you he was married, and I forgot, so were you going there to get back together with him?”

Harry crossed the room to stand uneasily on the other side of the futon, and Draco resisted the urge to run his hands up the soft black t-shirt in front of him. He looked up to Harry’s face from just below the other man’s chest, green eyes wary.

Draco’s fingers rested on the back of the futon, Harry’s hips temptingly between them, all but offering himself up to roving hands. Harry’s breath shuddered in, and one of his hands drifted down to slide into Draco’s hair. He sighed and leaned into the touch, letting his eyes drift shut.

“No. Maybe? I can’t say I was very rational, _mon coeur_ ,” he whispered. “But apparently Markus doesn’t share, so it didn’t matter.”

Harry’s fist tightened in his hair, immobilizing him and tearing a gasp from Draco. Arousal poured through him, with embarrassment hot on its heels. Harry scowled down at him, and it shouldn’t have made him hungry for more.

“You _asked_ him, Draco?” Harry hissed. “Falk told you he was married, and you asked him to fuck you, anyway?”

“He was mine first,” Draco whispered. He pulled against the hand in his hair as his pulse sped and he fixed Harry with a bitter glare. “And I certainly wasn’t getting anywhere with my new Auror, was I? But, as you put it, a lot could have happened in eleven months in three days.”

“I’m sorry.” Harry let out a heavy breath and leaned against the futon, relaxing his hold on Draco’s hair. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Dray. That wasn’t fair.”

Draco huffed out a disappointed breath at being released then scowled at himself. He was half-hard from the interaction, and not proud of it. He pressed his cock against the futon cushion and swallowed down a moan.

In front of him, Harry’s jeans strained across his hips, so maybe his shame was misplaced. Harry’s other hand slid into Draco’s hair, and Draco’s eyes drifted shut with a soft hum as Harry cradled his head in both hands.

“You… liked that?” Harry asked tentatively. Draco sighed in response.

“Maybe,” Draco drawled, licking his lips. 

“Draco,” he whispered. “You’re fucking gorgeous. And I want you. And tomorrow, I can have you, and it scares the _shit_ out of me.”

“Hm?” Draco hummed drowsily. The warmth from Harry’s hands slid down to the back of his head, and he opened glazed eyes as his head lolled back. “I’m terrifying,” he murmured with a lazy smirk.

Draco’s hands gripped the futon as he pulled back to look up at Harry, then shifted forward to rise, putting his weight on the frame.

The metal frame clicked twice, Draco’s breath hitched, and he crashed forward on top of the collapsed backrest with a clatter and _oomph_. Carpet and Harry’s feet greeted Draco as his head hung over the edge of the cushion. 

A stifled snort and chuckle sounded above him. Dignified, this last Malfoy.

He rolled over and repositioned himself on the futon with a demonstrable clearing of his throat. Laying on his back seemed more composed, despite the adrenaline rush. Too late, he glanced down to see the hard bulge in his jeans and Harry’s intent gaze.

Harry crawled over him on hands and knees, and Draco gulped. Instead of a heated gaze, Harry’s eyes were wary as he hovered over Draco’s face. He traced long fingers down the other man’s tan cheek. 

“Why am I terrifying, _mon coeur_?” Draco asked, but he suspected he knew the answer already. Any sane man would balk at bedding him after hearing what Harry had.

“Not you, precisely,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know, Dray.”

He straddled Draco’s thighs and collapsed down. Draco’s breath exited in a hard rush as his human blanket smashed him against the futon cushion. Not the sexy pinning he’d imagined at all. Harry nuzzled his face into Draco’s chest, and his hips were motionless against Draco’s thighs.

“Maybe not me, precisely. But knowing what I’ve done doesn’t help, does it?”

“No,” he mumbled into Draco’s shirt. Harry’s own shirt, actually.

Draco clasped his hands behind Harry’s back, letting Harry’s weight hold him down in a passive embrace.

“If only,” Draco sighed. “If _only_ Muggles had invented something for such an occasion.”

“Mm?” Harry hummed against his chest.

“ _If only_ there was something two men could use in sexually uncertain situations,” he drawled dramatically.

Harry lifted his head and rested his chin on Draco’s ribs. “Are you fucking serious, Malfoy?”

“ _If only!_ ” Draco crooned, back of his hand against his forehead.

Harry popped up onto his elbows with a gasp. “Fuck! Dray! I wanna jerk you off with a condom!”

“ _IF ONLY!_ ”

“Oh, that skirt can fo fuck itself,” Harry muttered, scrambling off the futon and heading to his bedroom. “Stay there.”

“ _IF-_ ”

“Tosser!”

“Wanker.”

“Prove it.”

——————————

“Right, but with a lot of sky lights and plants all along the edges of the ceiling. Might need to ask Neve about that.”

He _felt_ her roll her eyes. In his _soul_. And also faintly against the skin of his shoulder, where her face rested. One of her arms lay flung over his chest, a leg intertwined with his. 

Her breath was soft in his armpit, and he was starting to suspect she enjoyed his sweat. She was also going to fall asleep soon, judging by the slowing rise and fall of her chest alongside his.

A freshly _Tergioed_ quilt lay just beyond the foot of his free leg, and he stretched it down to wrap his toes around the edge. Rather gracefully, he hoisted the quilt up to snatch it with his hand, leg pointed in the air. Downright ballet-worthy.

Hermione didn’t stir. Nor did she wake when he slid the soft quilt over them.

Extra bedrooms were a stroke of genius, he thought, glancing around. This one, with the big windows overlooking the front garden, between the other two up on the balcony, was especially brilliant. The four-poster bed was nothing compared to Draco’s Veela-feather expanse downstairs, but it was cozy.

Cozy in a very Weasley way, with its Gringotts Squashed and Ground-salvaged furniture, quilt, and plush rug. A scuffed but sturdy mahogany dresser and wardrobe sat in opposite corners, waiting. Two small tables stood on either side of the bed, ready for piles of reference books and discarded cups of tea.

Yep, Ron thought, congratulating himself. Brilliant.

——————————

Watching Draco put a condom on was somehow more arousing than watching him get himself off, Harry thought, slipping a hand into his boxers to wrap around his own cock. Probably, because when he finally put it on, if he ever got around to putting it on, Harry got to grip that hot, slick length. In the meantime, he seemed perfectly happy to use up a whole lot of lube and erode Harry’s patience.

Draco’s breath hissed in as he pulled the skin taut down his shaft and ran a thumb over the swollen head of his cock. Harry leaned forward over Draco’s hips, but was pushed back to his cross-legged seat by a hand against his shoulder. 

His bent, bare knees rested against the warm skin of Draco’s waist and thigh on either side of Draco’s tight, black trunks. A front row seat to a show that would eventually allow audience participation. Or end prematurely.

Draco clicked his tongue. “Not yet, _mon cochon_.”

Harry huffed an impatient breath that he suspected might have been a full-on pout. Draco’s hips bucked up into his own grasp, and Harry hummed eagerly. Draco’s porcelain skin flushed pink up the center of his chest, and Harry wanted to press his own naked skin against it and rut against Draco in a sweaty, slick mess. 

But, no. Not yet.

“I will wrap this up and let you have it when I’m good and ready.”

“You’re going to come all over your shorts first,” Harry said with a smirk.

“Or _you_ will,” Draco retorted with a glance down at Harry’s groin. Draco licked his lips and sighed. “No, you’re right. Give it here.”

Draco raised up on an elbow to sort through the bedside table drawer Harry had yanked out and brought to the futon. They could have gone to the bed, but something about the futon felt right. The horrible, ugly futon Draco hated but had first told him he loved him on.

He plucked out a packet, examined it, ripped it open, and rolled it on with practiced ease. Harry’s head cocked to the side as he watched the rather expert move.

“What?” Draco laid flat and let the fly of his trunks pull tight around the base of his cock. “You also didn’t think I knew what a computer-“

Harry’s hand wrapped around Draco’s slick length and squeezed, drawing soft moans from both of them. His hand slid down the thin covering, testing, relishing the heat soaking through. _Gods_ , Harry mused, why hadn’t they thought of this weeks ago?

Draco laced his fingers behind his head and relaxed, a vision of alabaster skin and soft black cotton. The muscles of his abdomen clenched with each pass Harry’s hand made, calling out the lie in his casual pose. Through the thin barrier, Harry watched the skin pull back, and he slid it forward with a slight twist. Draco’s breath hitched, and Harry knew he was close.

His left hand’s grip around his own cock was awkward, lacking the ambidexterity to do a decent job bringing himself off. Switching hands wouldn’t be better.

“Dray, can I… use my mouth?”

Lashes fluttered over glazed grey eyes, and Draco nodded softly. “Mind your teeth, or we’ll land in Azkaban again.”

Harry nodded back and stared, motionless, at Draco’s cock. He should have researched this. Being the recipient of many sloppy, half-drunk blowjobs was inadequate data collection, it seemed. 

Surely it couldn’t be that different from going down on women, and he had…. He’d gone down on Hermione so many…. _Merlin’s tits._

“I’ve never gone down on anyone,” Harry mumbled to himself.

Draco’s hand drifted down to resume stroking himself, seeing as how Harry had wandered off into the recesses of his oral history.

“ _Mon coeur_ , you don’t have to. It’s not a prerequisite,” he drawled lazily.

Harry shook his head. “No, I _want_ to, I just can’t believe I never have before.”

Draco shrugged, a neither-here-nor-there gesture. “Just do what _you_ like,” he said with a sigh. “Then, I’ll know what you like.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Harry blurted in a nervous rush. Just pretend he was sucking his own dick. That wasn’t weird.

He leaned forward to kneel next to Draco’s hip and bent down, taking the entire latex-clad length into the back of his throat in one fell swoop, rose up, and did it again. Draco shouted and bucked against his face, and Harry’s head bobbed up with the movement. He pulled back, startled. Draco’s wide eyes were wild, and his hands hovered in halted movement over his chest, as if he’d stopped himself from grabbing Harry’s head.

Harry quirked an eyebrow at Draco as he swirled his tongue over the tip of the other man’s cock. Draco cleared his throat and relaxed back down. “As you were, Potter.”

Harry smiled softly and slid Draco back across his tongue, sucking him gently as he slid further in. His right hand fumbled to reach his own cock, but couldn’t reach without tipping his shoulders unsteadily.

Draco’s hands threaded through Harry’s hair, and his hips lifted to meet Harry’s lips with each pass. Pleading whimpers fell from Draco’s mouth as he tried to move without disrupting Harry. He wanted Draco to move. And he wanted to feel him move. And to come with him.

He pulled back again, sliding the tip of Draco’s cock across his lips, earning him a petulant growl. Draco was a bit of a mess. A scarlet flush ran up the center of his chest to his neck and spread to his cheeks. The platinum hair at his temples looked dark with sweat, and his breath heaved like he’d just sprinted up from the sidewalk.

“Dray, what-“

“I swear to Salazar, Harry. If you keep stopping, I’m going to take care of myself in the loo.”

“What? Oh! Sorry,” he muttered sheepishly, not realizing how close to coming Draco had been. Multiple times. “I was just- Can I- Uhm...” Harry trailed off, not sure how to ask him.

Draco let out a long, steadying breath, and he lifted his head to watch Harry idly stroke him. “Can you what, Harry?”

Harry echoed his calming exhale. He could do this. “I want to fuck you, Dray,” he whispered, glancing up at Draco’s surprised expression. “I mean, I want you to fuck me. I mean, fuck.”

Draco chuckled softly and held a hand out, palm raised, gesturing to his own cock. “May I offer you this lovely seat, _mon coeur_? I don’t know that you’ll find it terribly comfortable, but I suspect the ride will be embarrassingly brief.”

Harry smiled, and he could feel the fake tightness of it as he slid his boxers off. 

_Ablunguo_ , and he was ready. Physically. Kind of.

“It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”

Draco blinked at him, hands behind his head again. “Quite likely. Normally, we would start with my fingers and tongue-”

Harry inelegantly choked on his own saliva at the imagined sensation of Draco’s hot, wet tongue laving around and inside him. His nipples tightened and cock twitched at the thought. Draco smirked at his reaction.

“I’m going to _spoil_ you, Harry. And if you want me inside you now, I’ll gladly treat you. Anything to pull those delicious moans out of you, _mon cochon_.”

Harry hummed low and eager, fist around his cock as he moved to straddle Draco’s torso on hands and knees. Slate grey eyes watched him coolly and fluttered shut as he leaned down for what he’d thought would be a soft, reassuring brush of lips.

Instead, Draco’s hands pulled him down against the other man’s eager mouth. Harry’s surprised grunt melted into soft moans as Draco nipped and licked, fingers anchored solidly in his black curls.

“Dray,” Harry said, clearing his throat and pulling away, “should I use my fingers first?”

He tried to sound at least a little confident as he asked, but was fairly sure he’d failed. _Gods_ , why was it so nerve-wracking? He was the Head-fucking-Auror, for Merlin’s sake.

“Do you _want_ to?” Draco asked, a bit challenging, Harry thought. As if he already knew the answer.

“Not really, no.”

Draco shrugged and ran his hands up Harry’s arms. “Then, don’t.”

“But aren’t you supposed to-“

“Harry. There’s no wrong way. It’s… divination, not arithmancy. Just find what you like, right?”

Harry nodded and leaned back, reaching between them for Draco’s cock, grateful he was still hard after what was hopefully Harry Potter’s last round of _dithering_. With a sigh, he rested the tip of the heavy length against his entrance and took a steadying breath.

“Say it again?” Harry whispered, as he willed his body to relax.

“I love you, Harry,” Draco murmured softly, letting his hands wander up Harry’s thighs on either side of him.

Harry lowered down onto Draco, a surprised gasp falling from his lips as the head slipped inside. It stung, but he exhaled slowly and relaxed, letting the discomfort ebb away.

“Say it again?” He let go of Draco and sat up, hands on his thighs as he pressed himself down onto the hot, slick length below him.

“I love you,” Draco panted, his hands gripping above Harry’s knees.

Harry watched Draco and hid a soft smile at Draco’s returning flush and wild, glazed eyes. It was tight, and awkward, and fucking glorious, but it didn’t hurt, he noticed. Not yet, at least, and he had to be at least halfway-

“Oh!” he whispered, as his hips settled onto the soft cotton of Draco’s briefs.

“ _Merdasse_ ,” Draco hissed. His entire body was tense under Harry, and Harry _loved_ seeing him fight to maintain composure. If he could get just the right angle, maybe he could watch Draco come entirely unspooled.

Harry wiggled his hips a bit, getting the hang of being stretched tight around a cock but still finding a way to move. It was a foreign kind of motion, to urge his hips to move up and down, rather than forward and backward, but that would feel good to Draco. 

His balance was off, and he shifted his knees wider, but it didn’t help. Maybe if he got up on his feet instead of his knees, he could-

“Harry, I’m going to lose my bearings while you find yours.”

“Sorry,” Harry murmured sheepishly, “I thought I’d know how to do this.”

Draco smiled, bottom lip between his teeth. “You could knit a jumper right now, and I’d come, Harry.” He sighed and ran hands up Harry’s thighs, gaze lingering on Harry’s hard cock jutting out between them. “For starters, _mon coeur_ , this needs attention. Possibly defense. It’s a bit enticing, you know.”

Harry snorted a laugh and wrapped a hand around his cock, relieved by both the familiarity and pleasure of it. _Just find what you like._

He started with a small rocking motion to his hips while he stroked, and groaned low and needy at the pressure on his prostate. Such a small motion, but it made tension build so quickly already.

“ _J’aime ça._ Fuck,” Draco panted, gripping Harry’s knees. “Don’t stop.”

His free hand moved from his thigh to sweep behind him and rest on Draco’s leg just above his knee. His shoulders leaned back with the movement, canting his hips back. Draco’s cock hit his prostate _hard_ with every short thrust of his hips, and he coughed a startled moan.

“Oh, _GODS_ , Dray!”

Harry’s fist sped, outpacing the thrust of his hips. All hesitation flowed out as unabashed pleasure bloomed hard and fierce between the touch of his hand and pressure inside him. Even Draco’s murmured expletives and sweat-streaked hair blurred away as the burning need inside him grew and tensed into a tight, hot knot.

It broke, and he came, a sharp shout and surge flowing from him with each slowing thrust. Draco’s choked sob startled him as he came, throbbing inside Harry.

His breath shuddered in as his pulse slowed, and Harry blinked down at Draco, who was a truly magnificent mess of flushed skin, sweaty hair, and… laughter? _Laughter?_

Harry sat down heavily, and Draco moaned as Harry fixed him with a suspicious glare. “Something funny there, Malfoy?”

Draco tried to hide a growing giggle behind his hands, and shook his head. Harry reached under him to slide off Draco’s cock, pulling the condom off after him.

“It’s-“ Draco started, and stopped to breath through a chuckle. “Of _course_ you’d just be bloody magnificent, _Potter_. Never jump into anything half-arsed, do you?”

Harry barked a laugh and flopped down along his side, stuffing his discarded boxers between his spent cock and Draco’s side as he wrapped a leg and arm around him. His head found Draco’s shoulder as long fingers wound through his black hair.

“I always use my whole ass, don’t I?”

“You certainly do.” Draco drew a deep breath in through Harry’s hair. “ _Dans le cochon tout est bon,_ ” he murmured. Draco’s thumb traced Harry’s jawline, up to his cheekbone, and his eyes drifted shut. “ _De la queue jusqu’au menton._ ”

Draco sighed into Harry’s hair as they fell asleep, wonderfully, perfectly tired.

———————————

_The dream started as they frequently did. Like a magical backfire. All motion and volume and terror._

_Pansy was screaming. Anguish in her cries. Her bare knees rested against his shoulders as she lay on the table in front of him. No, a bed. A hospital bed._

_Someone reached down to slick her sweat-soaked bangs from her forehead. Millicent Bulstrode, plain-faced, square-shouldered and solid next to her._

_“A couple more times, Pans,” she murmured._

_“Oh, FUCK YOU, Millie!” Pansy spat back. “FUCK YOU and your magical fucking pelvis, you cunt! I hope your next one is fucking triplets!”_

_Another contraction started, and Pansy bore down, face reddening. Draco’s hands waited at attention, a soft baby blanket across his lap. A hazy smooth surface peeked through, oddly reminiscent of the shimmering not-quite-there forms of the eaglets in his dreams._

_“I can see it, Pans. Almost there.”_

_He tamped down an excited grin as the head crowned and seemingly leapt forward. Always amazing how babies weren’t, until they suddenly just WERE._

_“Head’s out! One more push, Pans.”_

_She growled at him and bore down again, but more softly. Mille’s eyes shone with unshed tears as she bounced on the balls of her feet. His fingers held the baby’s head firmly and slid it into his other waiting hand as the shoulders exited._

_Draco ran through a long-memorized flow of warming and airway spells, and was rewarded with a throaty cry. He wished he could see the child as more than a shimmering shape._

_Pansy lay back, and a relieved sob broke from her. He wiped the baby down and wrapped it, settling it on Pansy’s chest._

_“Fuck,” she said with a sigh, looking down into the round scarlet face. “We’ve had a day then, haven’t we, love?”_

————————————

Draco sniffed back tears as he woke, wiping a cheek in Harry’s hair. Pansy in labor and Millicent at the bedside with Draco attending. So strange, but so right. She hadn’t looked much older in the dream, but then pregnancy had a way of obscuring age.

It begged the question of why Millie was there, not the child’s father. Millie was undoubtedly more experienced and a better choice than a bloke who was likely to feint, but it was a bit odd. And who on earth was the father? And how did _that_ happen?

Single mum by design? That sounded rather Parkinson. Single mum with an exotic, tantalizing backstory she’d pretend she didn’t want to tell. Sexy overseas tryst, perhaps. Maybe in Greece. An inebriated shopping spree in a Grecian sperm bank.

Draco mouthed one of Harry’s more ambitious curls, and considered giving it a tug. The whole Kos-Delphi-Slovenia excursion was either going to be a triumph or an absolute shitshow, baby Parkinson aside.

What if he didn’t _want_ to come back from Kos? What if Pans ended up staying there? 

Harry sighed in his sleep, deep and comfortingly simple, his breath rushing out over Draco’s chest. He let his palm run a firm line down Harry’s flank, soaking in the warmth from his skin.

What if Pansy wasn’t in Slovenia with him, and it was just him and Magnus? What if the visions in the crystal ball were more accurate than the dreams? What if Magnus in bed had somehow erased dreams of platforms and library fires and rings? Did a man in bed in a crystal ball outweigh an orb’s vision of Hermione arguing with a teenage Ursella in front of the fireplace at Wheal Elvan?

Had he made a choice that changed their course? Could that even be done? Would it be the worst thing if he had? If Magnus was some kind of revised fate, was that so bad?

_What if, what if, what if…_

There were worse fates than a gorgeous monolith of a man who could fold him up like origami and set him on his lap, blissfully bloodbound and sedate. That had always been rather nice, really, getting lost in the calm ebb and flow of Magnus’ mind. And the years had been kind to Magnus Falk.

A used condom next to his hip mocked him, and Draco scoffed at himself. Thinking about Magnus on the heels of bedding Harry was extraordinarily poor form. Even for a Malfoy. _Merlin’s tits, Draco_ , he thought. Maybe he really was just that terrible a partner.

Harry stirred, woke by Draco’s indignant huff at himself. He yawned against Draco’s chest and arched his back, stretching to the point of a tight shiver of muscles. His limbs settled back onto Draco with a content hum, and Draco’s heart sank. He wasn’t worthy of this.

Green eyes appraised him with lazy affection. “What time is it?”

Draco glanced into the kitchen. “Three. How do you feel?”

“Fine. Good. Really good, actually.” Harry’s head settled under Draco’s chin, and he inhaled the scent of his own shampoo. “Your heart’s running a race, Dray. What’s wrong?”

Draco took a breath to spin a half-lie, but stopped. The only thing worse than fucking up was lying about it. Probably.

“I keep seeing Magnus in crystal balls, _mon coeur_.” Harry shrugged and ran his free hand up Draco’s chest, thumb circling a pale pink nipple. “Magnus in… a somewhat compromising position.”

The thumb stopped, and Harry’s back tensed. Draco held his breath, waiting. Harry’s hand slid up behind Draco’s head as his shoulders rose. Their lips found each other in a slow slide of warmth and soft seeking. A quiet, tentative, giving and receiving. A mutual respite for consideration.

Draco’s breath shuddered in as he relaxed under Harry’s solid weight on his chest. Harry pulled back, unexpectedly placid after such an omission. He leaned down to give Draco a final peck on the chin.

“I need a shower,” Harry murmured, the beginnings of a smirk growing. “Don’t get married without me.”

“I’ll try,” Draco whispered, eyes glistening. The cheeky bastard and his ring theories. “I love you, Harry.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

——————————

“Ron, I’ve honestly wanted to roll around naked on this rug for weeks. Thank you for inviting me.”

Ron blew a raspberry between her breasts, got tugged up by the hair, and flopped down next to her.

“It doesn’t count as fucking in the nursery if there are no babies in it. Catch twenty-two.”

“Good point.”

He dipped a hand into the pocket of his discarded trousers behind him and came back with two black-coated fingers that sparkled in the soft light of the setting sun. Licking one, he held the other out to her.

She sighed and wiggled close along his side, though all he saw was darkness and the unfurling galaxy above them.

“What are you going to _do_ with this stuff?”

“No idea.”

“ _AstraNox._ Sounds like it belongs in the Space Chamber on Level Nine.”

“There’s a thought.” Ron felt his eyebrows raise in interest. That wasn’t a bad plan at all. Godric knew what they did in there, but making friends with Unspeakables didn’t sound like a bad idea. “Want to sneak some down with a note tomorrow, ‘Mione?”

“You’re a smuggler _and_ a drug dealer now?”

The stars faded, replaced by granite walls, a thick rug, and a vision of soft skin and chestnut curls. He rolled over on her, intentionally graceless and clumsy.

“I’m a snuggler and a hug dealer, you say?”

———————————

Maybe it was cowardice on his part, Harry thought, as he scrubbed the shampoo out of his hair. Maybe he was too chicken shit to ask Draco about the whole Magnus thing. Or maybe it was just futile.

It was like interrogating a witness to the point of breaking them. And Draco was obviously a little broken over the whole thing. What could be gained from talking it to death? False leads and drama.

So, letting it play out was just the most simple solution. If Draco couldn’t keep it in his pants, they’d deal with it. At least it was Magnus, not a group of Quidditch players. And at least it’d be someone who had Draco’s best interests at heart, not some random man. Perspective, that.

Harry’s roving hands traced down his hips, one of them sliding around to his ass. He bit a lip, letting his fingers wander into the still-slick crevice. He wasn’t surprised he’d liked having Draco inside him, but he hadn’t expected it to feel _that_ good.

A finger pressed against his entrance and slipped in, followed by a second and a low hum of interest. He let the hot water flow down his chest as his fingers stretched and explored him.

He’d expected his first time to hurt like hell and be moderately terrifying, not… _that_. Not coming so fucking hard he’d thought he’d gone blind for a moment. And certainly not feeling a kind of liberation in it.

His fingertips found his prostate, and a low, eager growl trickled from his lips before his mouth snapped shut. _Fuck_ , he thought, _Arse-end Auror, indeed._

The bathroom door opened, and Draco stuck his head in with a soft rap of knuckles against the wood. “Dinner in fifteen. And you know you’re not quiet, don’t you?”

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, I know. What are you making? It smells good.”

“ _Poulet sauté chasseur._ Extra mushrooms.”

“I have no idea what that is, but I trust you.”

Draco’s silence amplified the slick squelch of soap between Harry’s legs as he brusquely washed himself.

“Do you?” Draco whispered, and Harry saw his silhouette shift uneasily.

“Yeah, Dray. I do. You can’t control Seer shit, so… we’ll figure it out. I’m more concerned about Ursella setting off those library sprinklers, to be honest.”

Draco huffed a laugh and Harry watched the blur of him through the shower door and astigmatism as it drifted closer.

“I don’t want being with me to feel like dragon taming, Harry.”

Harry turned the water off and slicked his hair back, squeezing out a small cascade of water before opening the door. Draco handed him a towel, and Harry assumed he was probably inspecting his erection. Hard to tell without glasses.

“You’re not that terrifying, after all,” Harry muttered, ruffling his hair with the towel.

“We’re going to use condoms,” Draco said, somewhat vacantly. “At least for a while. For anal.” 

Not a question, Harry noticed. A decree.

“Uhm, alright. If you want to.”

“I do.”

“Can I ask why, Dray?” Harry leaned down to dry his legs. Odd request, he thought.

“I think you felt safer. And I think you need that.”

“Oh…” Harry dried his face a second time. Then a third. “Huh.”

Draco wasn’t wrong, Harry thought. The idea of Draco’s bare cock inside him tomorrow evening felt like something he kind of wanted, but mostly _had_ to do. Something he was expecting, but also dreading, but for no specific reason. Today’s sex had been just the opposite, and amazing.

Draco took his towel from him and handed him his glasses. The blur coalesced into jeans and the Cannons sweatshirt. 

“You wouldn’t feel offended?” Harry asked.

“No. Security’s required to climax for most, _mon cochon_.”

“Can’t argue that,” Harry muttered, wrapping the towel around his waist.

“Fear doesn’t lead to good orgasms. If any. For example...” Draco bit the inside of his lip and fought a wicked smirk. “Ernie couldn’t come without socks on. Ever. Felt too exposed, I guess.”

Harry snorted a laugh and wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist. “Great. I have to see him around Diagon. And now I’ll have that mental image.”

Draco’s arms wrapped around him, thumbs tracing idle circles on his lower back as a mischievous grin spread across his face.

“ _Argyle_ socks.”

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Trippin’ the Night Bombastic

Rippin’ birthright; fall dynastic  
Slippin’ down from heights scholastic  
Snipped slights; cutting, drastic  
Quippin’ insights sarcastic

Lips hard, one-man fight; face plastic  
Sip overrrrrrrenthusiastic  
Flick; lightin’ up, limbs spastic

Unzippin’ that rite orgiastic  
Stripped in sight; so enthusiastic

Gripped skin held tight; elastic.

DLM 1999 Durmstrang Institute  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Florian & Bots, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	38. Slow Burn, Good Stretch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parole's up, pants down.
> 
> Ron's a criminal, Hermione's in a cell.
> 
> "Malfoy."  
> "Longbottom."

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Upside-in, Rightside-down

Falling like fucking.  
Vertigo in “yes” and “no”.

Come along.  
Come down.  
Come home.  
Come come come,  
But come alone

Keeping up, keeping down.  
Kept aloft, kept around.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Florian & Bots, 2021  
*********************************

Harry yawned, stretched against the back of the chair, and flinched as his mobile hit the granite floor with a sickening crack. He mumbled curses around the white cord held between his lips. A fissured spiderweb decorated the screen. Fantastic.

Most days, he didn’t need earbuds to concentrate on work. Most days, Draco was fairly quiet, but not today. Today, he’d rotated between obnoxiously tapping his pens against notebooks and stuttering out broken measures on his harp, interspersed with long bouts of staring off into the distance. A whole morning of alternating between annoying and eerie. Through all of which, he claimed to be “fine”.

Harry wasn’t “fine”. Not by a long shot. Harry was fighting an exhausted sexual combustion of his own making as he watched the hours creep by. 5:00 PM couldn’t come fast enough. But he surely would. Repeatedly.

————————————

Ron stepped out of the Burrow Floo, still picking Quintaped hairs off his t-shirt. That thing was going to be the focus of all of his nightmares for the next year. Bloody terrifying creatures, they were. Like a starfish, king crab, and gorilla had a very fertile three-way.

But it wasn’t the appearance that disturbed him. Not really. It was the spell-resistance. The total resistance to magic that lasted even after death. 

He’d never needed to hack a creature up with an _actual_ hacksaw before, and doing so ever again was _not_ appealing. The fuckers were so magic-resistant, the Floo hadn’t responded to him till he got most of the hairs and whiskers off his clothes.

The possibilities were dumb-founding. In theory, he could make magic-resistant armor for the Aurors. Easily.

He could make any manner of magic-cancelling equipment, firebreaks, security equipment. So many things. But so little time, seeing that preservation spells didn’t work on the parts. He needed to store them somewhere cold, but that didn’t rely on magic to-

“Oh! Ron!” His mum came round the corner. “Didn’t know you’d be home for lunch, love. Sit down, I’ll fix you a plate. Even if you do smell something awful. Dark Farts again?”

“I…” Ron hesitated, wishing he’d have just attempted to Apparate straight out to his dad’s shed to sort through the Muggle devices. “I can’t actually stay. Just stopped by to look for some things.”

“Well, you have at least a minute for a proper lunch, Ronald. Sit.”

Ron tamped down a frown and eased the annoyance from his brow as he sat at the table. He was twenty-seven, for Merlin’s sake. Being sat down at the table like a child to be served a lunch he didn’t need or want was a bit humiliating. And his mum didn’t seem to really want to be making lunch, anyhow. Her apron was stained with chlorophyll and mud. She’d obviously been in the middle of something.

A plate drifted over to him, sandwich, crisps, and a Muggle biscuit on top.

“Is this from the ‘Harry had a bad date’ stash, Mum?”

She shrugged, hiding a smile. “It’s been a while since he needed it. Might as well clear up the space.”

“You don’t have to make me lunch, you know.” Ron took a bite of the sandwich, and it was… a sandwich. It was fine, but it wasn’t worth his time nor her effort. Not when he had a dismembered Quintaped to find cold storage for, and she’d been in the middle of gardening.

“I know, I know,” she muttered, as she brushed crumbs from her hands. Her blue eyes found his, but glistened with unshed tears he didn’t understand. “I just…”

She turned back to the counter in search of more crumbs to dust away. His chewing slowed, and he wondered how much she knew. About him, and Hermione, and Harry, and Draco, and the dreams, and the children.

“You’ll need a bigger table, Mum,” he said, swallowing thickly. “The babies are due to start arriving in five months, you know.”

She choked a sob and dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron as she turned.

“Twins, right?” Her smile was feeble. Fragile. Hesitant.

Ron nodded. “Right bit of trouble they’ll be. Followed by a ginger menace and a very cute green-eyed hurricane.”

“Oh, Ron.”

————————————

The pattern wouldn’t leave Draco alone. It happened sometimes, like this. A cadence that wouldn’t leave the cerebellum. A subtle, specific momentum that sought release from his body.

Sometimes, it ended up being words; struck to strict stresses and entrusted to paper. Sometimes, it was a single measure of a composition that never grew. Sometimes, it was a binary of high-low, on-off, black-white. Sometimes, there were shades of grey and subtleties and rise and fall.

It was a rhythm, and he was the conduit, but it hadn’t spoken its form. A bit like Seer dreams, but without the spook factor. A neurosis, maybe, he thought, repeatedly plucking the same two strings on his harp. Harry probably never had the need to purge a pattern from himself like a bodily function.

 _Harry_. 

_Harry_ , who would be leaving soon. Maybe he would spend the night, lulled into a coma by what was sure to be an utter marathon of fucking. But then maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d get his jollies and Floo back to his flat in _Fucking Soho_. 

Maybe he’d rather spend the night in his own bed. They’d attempted it last night in _Fucking Soho_. Draco still wasn’t sure if his tossing and turning had kept Harry awake, vice versa, or some of both, but the 3 AM Floo trip back to Wheal Elvan had felt like defeat.

A sharp crack echoed through the rooms, followed by Harry muttering soft curses, and the grate of a wooden chair against the stone floor. Draco drew a long breath through the yellow Cannon’s sweatshirt, held it for a few moments, and sighed. His Auror was in fine form if he was breaking things.

“Dray, what-“

Draco squawked and hugged the soundboard of the harp, as if it could shield him. Harry stood awkwardly in the doorway, frowning at his mobile. White cords were draped loosely around his neck, and Draco wanted to grab a hold of them and pull him in and snog him till his horrible flat in _Fucking Soho_ ceased to exist.

Instead, he cleared his throat and released the harp from its hug. “Hm?”

“Sorry, I just, um…” Harry slid the cord down and carefully wound it around his palm. “What’s wrong?”

Draco shrugged, one-shouldered and meaningless. Perhaps it was cruel to not lavish affection on Harry after yesterday. Perhaps he should be more tender in the wake of Harry’s first experience on the futon. And the second in his shower. And then the third in his bed. The glutton.

“That’s the shrug,” Harry said, stuffing the carefully-wound cord into his jeans pocket. Draco leveled a neutral gaze at him. “The shrug. The _I don’t want to talk about it but I do but only if you make me_ shrug.”

Draco shrugged again, a soft smirk spreading.

Harry crossed the room to inelegantly smash his face against Draco’s shoulder blade. His arms snuck around Draco’s waist, pulling him in tightly.

“I slept like shit last night,” he mumbled into the soft sweatshirt. “Want to go not talk about it in bed?”

Draco cast a teasing glance over his shoulder and shrugged.

——————————

Hermione cupped the plastic baggie of AstraNox in her jacket pocket as the golden lift gates closed in front of her. Her other thumb smashed the button for the ninth level with unnecessary force. She should have asked Ron for a better container when she’d passed him the key to Harry’s flat, but there were freckles and a beard and a tongue, and it had slipped her mind.

The lift shuddered to life, chimed, and began its descent as she wondered how one goes about dropping off questionable materials with the Department of Mysteries. Did they have a little post box somewhere? Should she just leave it with a note?

The lift let out a steady, low alarm and halted on Level Two. A resounding _bung… bung… bung…_ filled the small space and echoed out into the empty DMLE lobby.

Odd, she thought, and punched the button for the ninth level again. Nothing. Frowning, she tried to pry the golden gates open. Locked.

With a screech, the lift turned on its axis, the DMLE lobby disappearing as it rotated to face… cells.

A head of dark hair was bent over a desk, red robes cascading behind him. Adams looked up and cocked his head, nostrils flared.

“You brought contraband into the Ministry, Councilwoman Granger?”

She yanked her hand out of her jacket pocket and scrubbed it on her hip. _Shit shit shit…_

“Uhm- I- No?”

“Sorry, ma’am. Rules. I’ll show you to your cell.”

“I… _What?!_ ”

————————————

“What do you want for dinner tonight?”

Draco grunted against his upper arm, arms and legs intertwined like a greedy Acromantula. An especially aggressive hand job had done wonders for Draco’s mood. Harry set his glasses above them on the ledge and snuggled down into the nest of pillows and limbs.

“Gonna eat your arse for dinner,” Draco mumbled.

Harry went to laugh at the joke, but realized it wasn’t a joke. His face froze in quiet consideration. One sleepy, heavy-lidded grey eye examined him from over his bicep.

“And then, death by cock sucking,” Draco whispered against Harry’s skin.

Harry did laugh at that one. “If only it worked like that. The war could have been downright fun.”

Draco’s lips nipped idly along Harry’s arm. “Mm. Not allowed in the Great Hall.”

Yawning, Harry grunted in agreement. His mobile vibrated on the ledge above him, and he ignored it. Janice had been texting him lists of forms in an obnoxiously erratic pattern. Lessons on email use were coming.

The warm breaths against his arm slowed, and Harry’s gaze slid down to Draco’s fluttering eyelids. He still didn’t know what had upset him all morning, but holding him by the hair and making him come with a skirt had apparently helped.

Didn’t matter why, he thought, letting his own eyes drift shut. If it worked, it worked.

His mobile buzzed again, a distant annoyance as he fell asleep.

——————————

Ron crossed his arms over his chest and huffed out an annoyed breath at the contents of Harry’s fridge. This would work. It had to work. He hadn’t carried this stinking carcass from Wheeze’s to Soho for it to _not_ work.

But why was there food in the fridge? It wasn’t rotten, and didn’t have Stasis charms on it. Odd.

Surely Harry wouldn’t be back at his flat till Draco’s parole was up, and that should be on Monday; three weeks from sentencing.

The bottom drawer pulled out with a scuff of plastic on plastic, and he swept the food off the shelves down into it. Good enough.

It wasn’t a huge Quintaped, he didn’t think. There weren’t many reference materials on them. Maybe the size of a smallish goat? But… bloody terrifying. If a goat had five humanoid arms for legs and a body like a fur-covered crab and a tooth-filled leech maw.

Said maw rested on the middle shelf of the fridge in the round central body of the beast. The dismembered limbs fit together rather nicely on the top and bottom shelves. For lack of a better solution, he hid two glass jars of drained blood in the fridge door with the condiments. Mustard, Quintaped blood, mayonnaise, hot sauce, Quintaped blood.

Not the best solution, but a decent enough one. 

————————————

Draco woke with a crick in his neck and an insistent throb in his cock. Not the best nap, but a decent enough one. Enough to think. Or fuck. Or think about fucking. Or fuck about overthinking.

He raised a hand to cast a wandless _Tempus_ , but hesitated. The touch of magic would wake Harry, who was sleeping rather beautifully. If one could sleep beautifully. Which, it appeared Harry Potter could. His lips were especially kissable while he slept.

True to form, Harry’s erection beckoned him from below the floral print of the satin skirt. Tomorrow morning, he could wake Harry up with his lips and tongue, and not this fucking skirt. It had served its purpose and earned its retirement.

But would Harry wake up in this bed tomorrow morning? How long would he stay once he didn’t need to? How many hours until Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were free? Free _of_ each other? Free _to_ each other? Both?

Harry’s mobile buzzed, and Draco reached for it. A better option than a _Tempus_.

Little boxes with Hermione’s name and what he assumed were Auror names lined up across the screen, the messages hidden. Above it, “4:45 PM”.

Draco gasped softly and glanced toward the window. Sure enough, eagles swooped and reeled in the distance, the day’s dying light glinting orange across white feathers.

Fifteen minutes. A wicked grin spread, and he licked his lips. This Auror was going to find out just how filthy Draco Malfoy’s mouth could be.

——————————

Hermione wanted to plink a metal cup along the bars of her cell, but she wasn’t entirely sure why. To elicit pity from Adams? To re-enact a scene from a movie? For the sheer drama of it?

Draco was rubbing off on her. Figuratively. More likely rubbing one out with Harry.

 _Harry_ , who was studiously not responding to her texts. Adams sat behind a counter pretending to do paperwork, but she could see him tapping out messages on his own mobile, followed by expectant smiles.

Hermione smirked and sat up on her cot. “ _Ah-woooooo…_ “

Adams looked up and frowned. “Racist, Granger.”

“I-” Hermione’s mouth hung open, shocked, then clapped shut. “Huh. Sorry.”

“You’ll learn,” he muttered. “Has Harry replied to you at all? I’m getting _nothing_ from him.”

“Nope. Same here.”

Adams tapped the corner of his mobile against his chin, thinking. “Malfoy’s parole is up in a few minutes. Maybe he’s waiting till after then.”

“ _What?!_ Draco’s sentence was passed on Monday afternoon. Harry tampered with the paperwork, didn't he?"

“Yeah, I think so. Five o’clock today. Possible he’ll be delayed horribly by that, huh?” Adams shot her a downright wolfish grin. “Want to send somebody else an owl?”

Wheal Elvan was going to become a two-man Bacchanalia, and that was entirely too exciting a thought to dwell on. But it meant Harry was probably going to be useless for at least a few more hours.

Hermione bit her lip and thought. She could owl Ron but had no idea where he was. Wheeze’s? If she sent it to Wheal Elvan or the Burrow, the message would either sit till someone checked the Wheal Elvan roadside owl perch, or be intercepted by Molly. 

And if Ron did come in, they’d just arrest him, too. They’d have to search Wheeze’s. They’d find the dragon hatchery and smuggling operation. The Head Auror’s best friend would go down in flames, and Harry would have to strike the match himself.

“No, I’ll just wait for Harry.”

“I’ll get you a blanket and pillow.”

“Thank you. And… sorry about the howling. That was immature.”

“That was a mating howl, by the way. Not a particularly dignified one, either.”

“Oh, Merlin.”

———————————

Ron squeezed the last of Ginny’s posh shampoo into his palm and Vanished the empty bottle. Why did that Quintaped smell _so bad_? Like rotting meat, even though it was fresh. Maybe they were scavengers.

That stink was going to linger in Harry’s fridge if Ron didn’t get it out of there by tomorrow night. The water pressure shuddered, and he sighed. Should have just showered at Harry’s, not come back to the Burrow.

A clattering stampede sounded from the hall, followed by toddler squeals and a flow of chastising French as the door slammed open. Ron joined in the cacophony with a manly little shriek.

He pulled back the curtain and stuck his head out. Lou was covered head to toe in mud, some kind of burred seed pods in his hair. His auburn hair was matted into clumps around the pods, made worse by drying, flaking dirt. The tyke must have found his own appearance hilarious, given his peals of laughter.

“Oh!” Fleur said with a start. “ _Merdasse!_ He needs the shower!”

Lou collapsed onto the thick rug, giggling for all his little belly was worth.

“It is…” Fleur searched for the words. “ _Alihotsy_ pods?”

Ron gasped. “He got into the Hyena Tree?” She nodded, chewing at her lip in worry. “Oh, shit. Did you touch the pods, Fleur?” She shook her head as her lips curled down into a sobbing frown. “Here. Pass him in and find me a comb.” Nodding anxiously, she began rattling through drawers.

Ron snagged a towel and stepped out, wrapping it around himself as she held Lou out, comb between her teeth. Ron held Lou carefully, grabbing fistfuls of the back of the boy’s clothes as he shrieked with laughter, like he was having the time of his little life.

Fully-clothed, Lou sat in the spray as his laughter faded into giggles. Ron took the comb from Fleur and she sat heavily on the lid of the toilet, face in her hands.

Ron kept a hold of the back of Lou’s shirt, careful to not let his arm near the boy’s hair.

“Alright, buddy. We’re gonna use up all of Aunt Ginny’s fancy pantsy conditioner, and you’re gonna tucker out.”

Lou beamed up at him. “Oh, fuckee!”

Ron snorted a laugh as he picked the first pod out. “Shh… Blabbermouth.”

———————————

Harry startled awake to a jolt of magic around his wrist, the sound of his own groan, a gratuitous slurp, and the most _divine_ slick heat around his cock. A firm tongue slid against the underside of his swollen head. Teeth grazed, just on the edge of too much, along the top of his shaft. Wakefulness rushed in with another groan.

“The fuck…” he mumbled, blinking. His hips bucked up into the sensation as he found his glasses and shoved them onto his face. A fall of blonde hair blocked his view, but sweet Circe’s slit, he didn’t need eyes to revel in Draco Malfoy swallowing his cock like he was made for it. “ _Fuck_ , Dray.”

Draco hummed in response, hands wandering Harry’s hips as he bobbed. He released Harry’s length with a dramatic pop and sat back. “Happy… Paroletirement?”

The bracelet on his wrist had faded to a dull off-black. Just a plain leather band, now. “Uhm, release date,” Harry mumbled. 

“Apropos.” Draco grinned, lips spit-slick and pink. “I’ve been waiting to wake you up like this for _weeks_.”

“I… am very awake. Did I seriously sleep all afternoon?” 

Draco’s hand wrapped around him; long, strong fingers sliding the skin over the tip of him with a wicked grin.

“Mm hm.” He licked his lips, eyes on Harry’s cock. “I did warn you, you know.” Draco waited for Harry’s response, but Harry had no idea what he was talking about. “About my dinner plans. That involved your gorgeous arse and this delectable cock? Ring a bell?”

“Oh, gods,” Harry whispered as arousal and understanding roared through him.

Draco’s hand tightened over the tip of him, drawing out a needy whine. _Fuck_ , how could just a hand feel _so_ good? Because it was Draco’s? Because he didn’t have to stop this time? Because he _wouldn’t_ stop. At all. Ever again.

“What would _you_ like for dinner, _mon cochon_?” Draco purred.

Grey eyes watched him, waiting. Harry’s breath caught as the grip on his cock added a skillful twist. He wanted this. Wanted him. All of him.

“Everything.”

—————————————

“Adams!” Hermione barked.

He snorted himself awake, sitting bolt upright at the counter. “M’yeah? Ma’am?”

“Teach me werewolf things.” Hermione resented his supervision. 

Knowing what Harry and Draco were doing burned in her mind, a scorching meteorite of lust embedded and smoldering. If she’d had a sleeping _human_ guard, she would have let her hands wander into her trousers. But no, a werewolf would either hear or smell it.

He rubbed his eyes and glanced down at his mobile. “Alright. Like what?”

She sighed for the umpteenth time and let her body sink into the cot, a shoe dangling from her toe. “Think of it like foreign dignitaries. Greetings. Manners. Things of that nature.”

Adams stretched, and she heard his back pop as he lifted each shoulder in turn. “Well, contrary to Muggle folklore, we don’t have packs. I mean, we group up to run and hunt. And somebody usually organizes it. But not packs.”

“Good to know. So, don’t try to schedule negotiations with a leader?”

“No.” His gaze drifted down either side of the hall between her cell and his counter. His nostrils flared and he chuffed a couple subtle breaths. “Dinner’s coming. And it’s going to suck. Fossilized sausage rolls.”

“Chew toys?”

“Racist. Honestly.”

“God dammit!” Hermione threw her arms over her face in frustrated embarrassment, and her shoe teetered off her toe onto the floor. “You can have my sausage roll.”

“I’m gonna.”

————————————

The “Couldn’t Tell His Arse From His Head” Auror had lost the power of speech. And what he lacked in verbosity, he made up for with volume. And enthusiasm.

Draco licked a long swath from Harry’s arse, up his balls, along the underside of his cock, and stopped to lay a chaste kiss at the tip. Harry’s chest heaved, panting out wordless adoration. 

A song in whimpers and pleas that lodged itself firmly in Draco’s throbbing erection. His own hips pressed into the mattress, striking a teasing rhythm against the sheet.

His tongue swirled a slow path around the leaking cock below him, and the morning’s consuming mental cadence danced through his mind. He hummed the short tune as he took Harry back into his mouth, and he writhed under the attention. Draco’s fingers wandered down to the tight furl of muscle below Harry’s balls, still slick, but not quite ready yet.

Harry lifted his head and practically glared at him, finally gathering some semblance of true consciousness. “ _That fucking MOUTH._ ”

Draco rose up, lips still stretched around Harry, and lifted his brow over innocent, round eyes. Harry chuckled. “Yes, _that_ mouth.”

Draco harrumphed a breath through his nose and set his teeth just behind the flared head in his mouth. “ _Fuck…_ ” Harry hissed, hips lifting in search of the slick heat of his throat again.

Humming a short condescension, Draco pulled away and licked his lips. “I warned you, _mon cochon_.” He kissed his way down Harry’s shaft, tut-tutting as he made his way over flushed skin to his destination. “Never say I didn’t.”

His words were for Harry, but his gaze was on the delicate offering before him. He knocked Harry’s knees wider with nudges from his shoulders, and slid his hands under Harry’s legs, curling his arms around to grip Harry’s hips.

Draco pressed his own hips against the mattress, but gently. He could come like this, he thought. The stroke of his own body against the bed, Harry under his tongue, and the dulcet tones of a man properly unraveling drifting through the room. Oh, yes. More than enough to come. But, not yet.

“Hand on your wand, Auror. Be ready for trouble,” Draco commanded, grazing his lips down the crevice presented before him. A truly lovely arse, really. “I’ll secure the perineum. Perimeter. Something like that.”

Harry’s arsehole winked as he snorted a nervous laugh, but he complied and slowly stroked his cock. “Wand at the ready. I heard there’s a Death Eat-“ Harry broke off with a gasp as Draco tongued his hole. “Oh, _gods_. Oh, _FUCK_.”

Draco hummed in victory. The Auror’s integrity was officially compromised. Shameless.

He gripped Harry’s hips in both hands and pressed his face in tight, breath held as his tongue slicked through the ring of muscle and Harry shouted nonsensical curses between gasps.

_”Dray, I- Shit, don’t stop! Oh, oh, OH! Fuck!_

Licking, sucking, tongue darting, the insistent rhythm came back to him, and he entertained himself applying it to the instrument before him. A suck, a dart of the tongue, a luxuriously long lick, a crushing embrace, the edge of teeth, and a breath.

“ _Oh, fuck, stop!_ ” Harry gasped, slapping at Draco’s hands on his hips. “I’ll come. Stop.”

Draco held his position and kissed an idle path along one lovely arse cheek. “Come, then, _mon cochon_.”

“Fuck.” Draco slid his pointed tongue into Harry’s hole again, and he shouted. “I wanna come in your mouth, not my hand.”

“Oh, well,” Draco murmured, sliding his hands down to the bed and rising. “It is my duty to indulge you. My sacred obligation, really.”

“I mean, you don’t-“

“ _Ablunguo._ ” 

Slick fingers eased into Harry’s entrance, and he groaned, low and needy. Gods, he felt good. Hot and tight, clenching and unclenching around Draco’s fingers as his hips rocked. Draco’s cock throbbed, seemingly jealous of his fingers. Not even a mattress to rut against like this, he thought. Need scorched through him, denied but impossible to extinguish.

Harry whimpered as Draco’s fingers slid home, the rest of his fist pressing them deeper. Draco hummed softly in approval as he scooted forward, sitting between Harry’s thighs. His other hand wrapped around Harry’s heavy, hard length with a muttered second _Ablunguo_. 

The mental cadence that wouldn’t translate to pen nor harp returned, new instrument in his hands. Harry keened a high, desperate note through his nose as Draco’s hands slicked over the head of his cock and pressed his prostate in a steady, building rhythm.

“ _Fuck… fuck… Oh, gods… FUCK_ ,” Harry chanted along in time.

Draco leaned forward to lick the delicate clear droplets from the tip of Harry’s cock. His slick hand pulled the skin down tight as his mouth worked down the hard length, rising to suck, swirl, and descend again and again.

So close. So terribly close, the both of them. The tight, hot grip of Harry’s body around his fingers, his moans, the salty taste of him already. So close.

“I love you, Harry,” he murmured between strokes, sliding the hard length of him to the back of his throat and up to the tip of his tongue.

Harry’s hands found Draco’s hair and tugged gently in a steadying grip. His hips locked, and he came with a hoarse shout. Draco’s fingers worked inside him with one hand, along his shaft with the other, pulling wave after wave from him as he swallowed Harry down.

His fingers slid out as Harry pulled Draco up, leading him on all hands and knees over Harry. His cock hung heavy over Harry’s wilting erection. Draco licked his lips as he hovered eye-to-eye with a very dazed Head Auror.

Harry pulled his face down as he rose to meet him, warm dry lips against slick, swollen ones. Opening, searching, tasting, nipping, speaking without words, a language sans syllables. Draco moaned, soft and eager as Harry released him.

Rough hands cradled Draco’s jaw, thumbs gently stroking down to his chin and back.

“That _mouth_ , Dray.”

Draco grinned, wide and toothy in the russet light of the setting sun.

“Wait’ll you see what my arse can do.”

“Godric’s gonads,” Harry whispered, nudging Draco onto his side and tucking an arm under his head as he landed. “Give me ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

Draco settled in alongside him, and Harry went uncharacteristically quiet. Especially for having a hard cock pressed against his naked hip. Draco sucked his lips between his teeth, stifling the urge to press himself against Harry’s skin and rut like a horny teenager. Soon enough, he reassured himself.

A warm breath flowed through his hair as Harry nestled his face against it. Harry sniffled, muted by Draco’s hair. He wiped a cheek against the strands as his face turned.

“Thank you.” Harry’s arm squeezed Draco’s shoulders. 

_Gratitude._ For something so simple. Draco swallowed past the welling tightness in his throat.

“You’re welcome, _mon coeur._ You’re always welcome.”

Auror _sympa_.

——————————

“Uhm, thanks, Mum.”

Ron eyed the basket of muffins on his bed warily as he stuffed clothes in a trunk. The muffins all looked burnt to a crisp.

“They’re chocolate,” Molly said, barely above a whisper. She lingered in his bedroom doorway, strangely hesitant in her own home. “I thought you could take them with you.”

“Oh,” Ron said with a sigh. He glanced around the room. Not much was left beyond the furniture, everything else having been packed into an expansion-charmed trunk. It looked like it was ready for a boarder to move in. “Mum, I’m just taking some things over later. I could be back for dinner for all I know.”

She fiddled with the hem of her apron, gaze in the middle of the floor. “No, I don’t think you will, love.”

Astute, he had to give her that. Or maybe Draco had told her about the bedrooms already. Or she just knew him. Sometimes, he thought she was a Seer herself.

“I’ll be back for brunch on Sunday, though,” he offered.

She smiled wanly. “Better not just be you by your lonesome.”

He huffed a laugh. “It won’t. You really will need a bigger table.” He stopped to scratch his beard. “Mum, you need a _dining hall_. Maybe for Yule.”

Molly smirked at him. “So long as no one gets hurt this time, hm?”

“Yes, Mother,” Ron said drolly.

——————————

Draco’s breath shuddered out over Harry’s chest hair, and Harry smiled softly. Draco’s scalp was an erogenous zone. His fingers alternated between carding through the platinum strands to Draco’s sighs, and gently grabbing hold of them while Draco whimpered and pressed his hard cock to Harry’s hip.

He wasn’t stalling, but he wasn’t not stalling. A little. It was probably good that he’d bottomed yesterday, he thought. Several times. At least he knew what it felt like before he just jumped right into… Draco’s arse. What if he hurt him? He could settle for just being a shite lay, but what if he was dangerous?

Maybe this was what Draco had been worried about all morning, with his obnoxious puttering. Harry’s fingers scratched up the nape of Draco’s neck, and he hummed contentedly, cheek on Harry’s chest.

“ _Mon coeur_ , are you going to pet me or fuck me?” Draco’s face tilted down to kiss Harry’s nipple.

“You’re not nervous?”

Grey eyes peered up at him from under a fall of blonde hair, and Harry brushed it back.

“I am not, no.”

“Oh,” Harry muttered, silky strands sifting between his fingers. “You seemed kind of… I don’t know. Jittery, I guess. This morning. I thought maybe it was about this.”

“Mm,” Draco hummed. “No, I do not fear facing the Cock Ness Monster.”

Harry faked an amused huff. “What was it, then?”

“I’m not sure…” Draco sighed and nipped at the inside of his bottom lip. “I don’t know what we are, Harry. We were inconveniences to each other, at best, and now… this. And I don’t know what that makes us.”

“Well, I mean, dating, obviously. Boyfriends, I guess?” Harry asked with a grimace.

Draco hummed low in warning. “Not my favorite word. Especially for two men who were not friends as boys. Too much irony.”

“Manfriends.”

“No.”

“Partners?”

“Aurors have partners.”

“Lovers?” Harry offered, mentally straining to not blurt out _Husbands_.

“I suppose.” Draco’s fingers skimmed over Harry’s chest, peaking his nipples. “Sounds a bit salacious.”

“Fits with that fucking mouth of yours, then,” Harry murmured against Draco’s hair.

Deft fingers trailed down Harry’s abdomen, following the line of dark hair to its conclusion. He was half-hard even before Draco squeezed the base of his shaft.

“Dray, you were worried about how we’d introduce ourselves all morning?”

“No, not the words. The… the everything else. I’ve never _dated_ , Harry.”

 _So marry me_ , Harry thought, swallowing thickly. “I have. It sucks. Maybe we aren’t dating, then. We’re just… whatever we are.”

“Comforting.” Draco’s fingers traced up Harry’s hardening length. “May I have this, my beloved ‘ _whatever we are_ ’?”

Falk’s glimpses of Draco’s flushed desperation and ecstasy flitted through his mind as Draco stroked him. His cock throbbed in response. “Uhm, how do you want to do this?”

Draco’s cheek warmed against his chest, and he looked down to find a blush on the exposed cheek. Unusual for him to show any kind of inhibition, Harry thought.

“Hermione may have shown me some things, _mon coeur_.” Draco’s cock pressed against Harry’s hip, insistent and hot. “And I believe she and I share a mutual interest in being ‘fucked into a mattress’, as she so elegantly put it.”

“Is that even safe to-“

“Please?” Draco sat up, cross-legged and faced him, still stroking Harry’s cock. “Start slow, if you like, but… that?”

Harry regarded him warily, and sighed. Draco had more experience, by far. And he was a damned Healer. Who was Harry to deny him?

“I did say I wanted everything, didn’t I?”

“Oh, you did, _mon cochon_ , you most certainly did.”

——————————

Despite his criticism, Adams had devoured both sausage rolls. He’d at least given Hermione his packet of crisps as compensation. Really, she felt she’d gotten the better end of the deal.

“Okay,” she said, brushing crumbs off on her trousers, “if I outrank the werewolf, they’d show their neck, and then I’d do what? Lick it?”

“Loki’s loins, no!” Adams blurted around a mouthful. “Just nod. What the fuck, Granger?”

Hermione rolled her eyes to the ceiling and blew out a breath. “Sorry! Muggles lied! Okay, so what if the werewolf outranks me?”

Adams licked his teeth. “First, I’d be surprised. At least in the UK. But if you meet one someday on your way to becoming Supreme Mugwump-“

“Shut up,” she shot with a grin. “But do go on.”

“Anyway, you’d just kind of tilt your chin down and look up at them. Don’t show your neck. Only wolves do that.”

“Easy enough.” She peeled the second packet open. “That’s adults. What about werewolf… kits? Pups?”

Adams pinned her with an appalled stare. “ _Children_ , you fucking racist.”

“God dammit!” She flopped back on her cot and threw an arm over her face to hide an embarrassed blush.

——————————

Draco Malfoy was nothing but an exquisite burn around a thick cock. He may have had a body beyond that. One that was laid flat on its back, but he wasn’t sure. 

He used to own limbs, but that was before Harry had slicked a condom and lube over himself and very, very, _torturously_ slowly eased himself inside. Hands and feet, and hell, _lungs_ , were all unnecessary when one’s body was reduced to a greedy, eager hole and a twitching, leaking cock.

“Hey,” Harry said softly, hands behind Draco’s knees. He _did_ own legs, apparently. “Breathe.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Draco sighed, before obliging Harry with an inhalation of air. “ _Gods_ , Harry, just fuck me.”

“I will,” he replied, too calmly. “In a bit.”

Malfoys did not beg to be— His mind blanked out as Harry moved inside him. Too good, too fast. Too close, too soon. Tension coiled at the base of his cock as Harry’s length pressed against Draco’s prostate. His jaw went slack, and an inarticulate choked cough sounded from his throat.

A hot dry hand wrapped around Draco’s cock, suddenly slick as it stroked, and Draco flinched. “Not yet,” he panted. “Too close.”

Harry paused, nearly fully withdrawn, and pressed back in. Draco’s body arched into him, a needy whine trickling through his nose. His hands clutched the sheets as he fought to stay still.

“Harry, _please_ ,” Draco choked out. “Fuck me till you come.”

Green eyes watched him. “Till _I_ come?”

Draco nodded, too quickly to be considered dignified. His hole clenched with the slight movement, and he tightened his grip on the sheets.

“Alright. How?”

“From behind.”

Harry pulled out, and Draco swallowed a sob at the sudden emptiness. The insistent pressure in his hips eased enough for him to think.

He rolled to his knees and threw pillows aside, resting his forearms on the stone ledge above the bed. Notebooks, shells, pearls, and his own glasses greeted him, and he swept them away to make space.

Harry knelt between his calves and slid hands up Draco’s sides, and back down to his hips. His cock slid in the crevice of Draco ass, teasing, even as Draco tilted his hips up in offering.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much, Dray?”

One of Harry’s hands gripped Draco’s hip, and the other one guided his cock to Draco’s entrance.

“Of course,” he whispered.

Draco rested his elbows on the coarse granite of the ledge. The rough stone scraped his skin as Harry stretched him open again, faster this time. 

“Harder.”

“Not yet.”

Harry moved, slowly, carefully, and Draco pressed back into him, eager and begging with motion the way he couldn’t with words. _More, harder, faster, more more more_. Too much but not nearly enough.

“Harder.”

“Not yet.”

Draco leaned his hips back and lowered his shoulders, forehead on his forearms on the ledge. Harry pulled back and thrust forward in one long stroke, and Draco groaned, low and guttural against his own skin. Encouraged, Harry found a rhythm, pulling whimpers and moans from Draco as he stoked the growing heat in his groin.

“Harder,” Draco whispered, moving his hands to the edge of the ledge in preparation.

He gasped when Harry’s hands left his hips, one to scoop under the front of his shoulder, the other to grab him by the hair and pull him up. Pain burned from his scalp and pooled as tight arousal in his cock.

He squeaked in surprise as the ledge was replaced by open air, and Harry’s hot breath on his neck. His back bowed, only hips and shoulders in contact with Harry. His hands clutched Harry's forearm across his own chest, desperate for something stable to cling to as Harry drove into him.

The hard length inside him struck his prostate with each thrust, faster and harder. Harry growled softly in his ear, and goosebumps cascaded down Draco’s chest, nipples hardening.

“ _Fuck_ , Harry!” He choked out, neck bared as Harry released his hair.

“ _Ablunguo_.”

A hot, slick grip encompassed Draco’s cock, and he shouted. The building tension in his hips broke, and he came throbbing into Harry’s fist, but Harry kept moving.

“Gods, Dray,” Harry panted next to his ear, thrusting hard. “So. Fucking. _Perfect._ ”

Teeth and lips skimmed down Draco’s neck, and he moaned. Harry’s fist kept moving over Draco’s oversensitive cock, too good to stop, and Draco panted with each pass.

The lips on his shoulder gave way to sharp teeth, and Draco bucked back into Harry’s thrust. His embrace drifted from Draco's chest, hand settling to grip his hip.

“Fuck, fuck… Oh, _FUCK._ ” Harry tensed, grip bruisingly tight on Draco’s hip while the other hand milked his still-dripping cock. He thrust up, deeper, coming with a shout muffled against Draco’s shoulder.

Harry released Draco, and both his arms wrapped around the other man’s chest as their breathing slowed. Hot lips pressed a path along Draco’s shoulder, up his neck, and nipped at his ear.

“Say it?” Harry whispered.

Draco grinned, head lolling back onto Harry’s shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered, throat strained with the angle, voice hoarse.

Harry’s teeth scraped his earlobe. “Again?”

Draco sighed, all at once languid. “I love you.”

——————————

“Ugh, okay,” she said, pointing meaninglessly at the ceiling of her cell for emphasis. “So why can’t werewolf kids go to Hogwarts, then?”

“Because they won’t admit them.”

Adams had finished the sausage rolls and looked ready for a nap. His chin was cradled in his palms, and his eyes were blinking more and more slowly.

“Why not?”

Hermione lay on her back on her cot, feet flat, knees raised, t-shirt not _entirely_ covered in crumbs. If she had to be imprisoned, at least it was turning out to be very educational.

“Because they’re just as racist as you, Councilwoman Granger,” he snarked lazily. His mobile buzzed, and he sat up. “Hey, Potter texted me back.”

Her own mobile buzzed on the cot next to her, and she wiped greasy fingers on her trousers before digging around for it.

“Yeah, me, too.” She unlocked the screen to find an awful lot of exclamation points. “I think he’s mad.”

Adams snorted a laugh. “Fuck, probably. Guessing he was having a gay old time.”

“Adams, you’re almost funny when you want to be. Almost.”

——————————

Draco was awake, but Harry couldn’t really say he was fully conscious. Or maybe his brain had fallen out of his ass at some point in getting fucked. He’d certainly sounded like he’d lost his damned mind. Harry took a deep, focusing breath. No point in getting another erection thinking about the unreal sounds that came out of Draco while he got a good, hard fucking.

“She did _what_?” Draco murmured for the third time, mostly into a pillow. His eyes rolled lazily in Harry’s direction, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth. 

He looked utterly drunk. Debauched. Perfect.

Harry shuffled into his trousers and rolled his eyes. “She set off the contraband alarms at the Ministry. Her texts said she was taking something to the Department of Mysteries, but I have no idea what or why or just… what the _fuck_.”

“ _Ma chatte_ is a drug dealer?” Draco squeaked, half-giggling.

“Dray, it’s not funny,” Harry grumbled, wrestling his way into a shirt. “This could be the Prophet’s top headline since the war. Head Auror, Wizengamot, drugs.”

“And a Death Eater putting his dick in them both,” Draco hissed in a sarcastic whisper.

Said Death Eater dissolved into giggles as he rolled over on his belly. Harry sighed. Flooing into work was the last thing he wanted. Not when there was a boneless, fuck-drunk man who loved him sprawled out in bed.

“I’ll be sure they include that in the article.” Harry patted his pockets down, and looked for his mobile. “Dray, can you grab my mobile off the ledge?”

“Nnnnope,” he said with a pop. “Too comfy.”

Harry crawled across the bed toward his mobile, and Draco log-rolled toward him.

“Hey,” Draco said curtly, hooking fingers in Harry’s belt loops. “I want to go with you.”

“You can’t bring your knife. And there could be reporters. And lots of Aurors.”

Draco tugged on his belt loops, petulant. “I want to see Hermione in a cell.”

“Dray, I really don’t think it’s a good idea. I have no idea how long this will take.”

The lazy humor drained from the grey eyes as he watched Harry, and his fingers slipped from the belt loops. “Oh. Not a quick trip and then you pop right back, then?”

Harry shook his head as he slid off the bed. “No, at least a few hours. Maybe into tomorrow, depending on what it was and who all is involved.”

“Oh,” Draco said shortly, “I’ll just… I’ll stay here, then.”

Harry wiggled his feet into shoes, not bothering with socks. Taking Draco along was a terrible idea. Especially all shagged-out and loopy. He’d end up either falling asleep or going at it with Hermione.

“Sorry, Dray.” Harry shrugged a jacket on and made for the Floo, stopping between the bookcases to look back. “I’ll see you later. Or tomorrow. Or I’ll send an owl or something.”

“Oh,” he whispered. “Alright.”

Harry turned and crossed the living room, distantly aware of a faint _I love you_.

“Head Auror’s Office.” Green flames whisked him away.

——————————

His mum was trying to not watch him go and failing. She pretended to putter in the kitchen, but her ear turned toward the Floo as he approached it.

“Brunch, Mum. A day and a half, at the most,” Ron said, picking up a handful of Floo powder.

She nodded, eyes glistening. “G’night, Mum.”

“Bye, Ronnikins,” she said with a sniffle.

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Green flames danced quietly, and she sighed as he turned. “Wheal Elvan.”

The insides of unknown fireplaces zipped past, slowing as they approached their destination. As always, his own inscription inside the fireplace made him smile.

 _Robur inter spinas._ “Strength in Thorns.”

He stepped out, basket of muffins clutched to his chest, fully expecting to see Harry and Draco going at it like newlyweds. Instead, the stone rooms were eerily quiet. Maybe they’d drained each other dry and passed out already.

Crookshanks sat between the bookcases and warbled an indifferent meow.

“Hey, Crook. Nobody home?”

A pale lithe form drifted up behind the cat in the dark doorway. A tousled Draco in nothing but black lace knickers and… bruises. Bruises and bite marks. Ron drew a sharp breath through his nose as he took him in. Red-purple fingerprints decorated Draco’s hips and shoulders. Imprints of teeth ran down his neck on one side.

“Uhm, is Harry awake? I think I need to have a word with him,” Ron said cooly.

“Oh, he left,” Draco whispered, eyes unfocused.

“I’m sorry. _What?_ ” Ron spat. “Why? _How?_ ”

That made no damned sense. Harry couldn’t leave until Monday evening, and how on earth could he rough Draco up like this and just take off? He set the basket of muffins on the table and took one out, walking it over to Draco, who was leaned against a bookcase.

“Apparently, my parole was up an hour ago. Said he’d owl me.” He accepted the muffin and took a tentative nibble, followed by a solid bite. “Mm. Glad she didn’t use cinnamon and cloves.”

Ron was going to have a serious talk with the Head Auror about shagging Draco to pieces and then leaving. Un-fucking-acceptable.

“Looks like you could maybe use a couple of those, a nap, and a Healer, Draco.”

“Huh?” Draco looked at him in soft bewilderment. “Oh. No. Kind of… souvenirs. He had to leave because Granger got arrested sneaking drugs into Ministry HQ. Something about trying to take them to Unspeakables? I dunno. I’m headed out to go talk to someone about it.”

Ron’s heart dropped into his small intestine and rebounded into his throat.

Draco mumbled around the last bite of his muffin and traipsed over to the table to take two more out. “Harry said he didn’t know how long he’d be gone, but I don’t know if he’s coming back.”

“Obviously he’s coming back, Draco. Where else would he go?”

Draco shrugged. “His flat.”

Ron frowned and shook his head. “Nah, he’s not that thick.”

Draco snorted a laugh and wiped crumbs from the corners of his mouth. Ron examined him, concerned. He looked disoriented in a way that made Ron want to make soup. Odd reaction, that.

“He’s very thick,” Draco muttered. “Are you flying to Hermione’s rescue, too?”

Ron scratched his beard and considered shoving Draco into bed and tucking him in. Should he go to the Ministry to vouch for Hermione? He could take the fall for her. Better he get put away for drug manufacturing than have her lose her Wizengamot seat for his stupidity.

“Yeah, I’m gonna Floo into the Atrium and-“ Ron’s hand brushed the pouch of AstraNox in his pocket, along with the shrunken furniture and trunks. “Shit.”

Ron emptied his pockets onto the sofa, scattering furniture like an upended dollhouse. He picked his Crup-handled Blood knife out of the pile and slid it back into his pocket. “Here. This is what she got caught with. It’s quartz, Floo powder, and Peruvian Instant Darkness powder.”

Draco accepted the leather pouch with hesitant fingertips. “Ronald, that’s the makings of something dangerous. Even for a licensed Potioneer.” He took a deep breath. “And it smells like cherries? Why?”

Ron shrugged. “Beats me. All it does is makes the stars come out in broad daylight. Named it AstraNox.”

“Clever,” Draco muttered before finishing off his muffin.

“Alright,” Ron said with finality, patting down his empty pockets. “Gonna go do some lying, crying, or trying. Wish me luck.”

“And I shall go speak to an Unspeakable. _Bonne chance et bon courage!_ ” Draco bounced the pouch in his hand and smirked.

Ron took one last appraising glance at Draco as he stepped back to the Floo. Definitely going to talk to Harry about leaving him in such a state.

“Ministry Atrium.” Green flames whisked him away.

———————————

“Oh, come _on_ , Adams,” Harry groaned. “Seriously?”

“Potter, I can’t do fuck-all about it. The lift alarms are for the whole building, not just Level Two.”

Harry flipped his glasses on top of his head and rubbed his eyes. This was bad. Not as bad as, say, Vanishing suspicious muffins or ignoring the transfer of an illegal creature or sweeping a death in Ballycastle under the rug… Bloody hell, that was a lot of coverups already. 

But this was bad in that he couldn’t hide it. And that made Harry Potter question his own moral compass. _”Find the moral high ground and defend it,”_ Robards had told him.

“Harry?” Hermione squeaked, face smushed between the bars of her cell. “Am I going to Azkaban?”

Both Aurors huffed a laugh. “No, ‘Mione. Probation, at worst. Which would be hilarious, honestly. Just hop from house arrest with Draco to house arrest with you.”

“Oh…” she said softly.

Hermione’s gaze scoured down his body with a slowness that made his nipples harden against his t-shirt. Adams cleared his throat, eyes on Hermione.

“Councilwoman Granger _could_ be released into your custody, but you probably shouldn’t,” Adams muttered. “Not gonna look good if you just fuck everybody you’re entrusted with, Boss.”

Harry sighed and flipped his glasses back down, opening a dusty DMLE regulations guide. “I suppose you’re right.”

———————————

Draco stood in front of the Floo, a chocolate muffin in each hand, and a brain full of fuzz. He needed a nap. A nap, and several more languid, lazy orgasms. But _ma chatte_ was up a tree, and that was unacceptable.

Luna could probably get Hermione out of this pinch, he thought. Too dark to fly, though. The Floo would get Floo powder on his muffins. With a gasp, he realized he could Apparate. He could Apparate _anywhere_. And _any time_. He could roam the entire Merlin-blasted planet for the first time in his damned life. No Trace, no parents, no Ministry, no parole.

Hermione had mentioned visiting Paris. _Circe’s slit_ , that could actually fucking happen. But not with Granger behind bars. He held one muffin in his teeth, tucked the leather pouch in the side of his knickers, and disappeared with a crack.

The front door of the Rookery snapped into view, and his stomach rolled. The first muffin threatened to come up, but he forced it back down with a swallow of the second one. His other muffin-filled hand knocked on the door.

He cast a wordless warming charm over himself. Clothes might have been a good idea, but Luna had seen him in a lot less than knickers and muffins.

A light shone softly under the door, and the knob turned. A woman stood in the open doorway, sleek dark hair cascading down over a crimson silk dressing gown. A rather tall, statuesque woman.

Draco blinked rapidly, adjusting to the light as the woman’s eyes flicked up and down his form. A reserved, contralto voice raised goosebumps down his arms, despite the warming charm.

“Malfoy.”

“Longbottom.”

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

The Dregs

Settle slowly.  
Sentiment drifts like sediment.  
Tears or sand, coarse variant.  
Pearls and wisdom gleam, light holy.

Draff unearthed in mineshaft lowly.  
Lust-streaked veins of pure resentment.  
Settle… Sloooowly…  
Sentiment drifts like sediment.

Shifting substrate grows below me.  
Clear waters. Eyes blink. Sentient.  
Visions in context. Prescient.  
Settle. Slowly.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


	39. Curtain Call and Standing O

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BIG FINISH. WINK.
> 
> A smuggler duels the Head Auror.  
> A Seer dream like whoa.  
> A rousing rendition of a Spice Girls song gets confused with Muggle courtship.  
> A lovely foursome.

*********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Museuleum

Nothing etched but date and name.  
Not Death Eater, nor the Eaten.  
The family line in retrospect.

Part is honor, but one part shame.

No charter of the blows or beaten.  
Part spectacle, and part respect.  
Nothing etched but date and name.

DLM 2007 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

“ _Mon pignon_ , you’re staring,” Luna whispered behind his ear. He fought a shiver over his exposed skin, despite the warmth of her kitchen. _Their_ kitchen, he reminded himself as he tore his gaze away from Neve Longbottom making tea. Clothes would have been fucking brilliant. Not… hands full of muffins and a leather pouch of drugs stuffed in the side of lace knickers. Knickers that were getting tight.

“Oh! _Ma biche!_ I did not come here for tea.”

Neve turned to regard him out of the corner of her eye as she poured the kettle, eyebrow raised. She smirked at his discomfort and turned away.

Supremely awkward, all of it. Knickers, muffins, drugs, _Neve Longbottom being entirely too attractive_. Dear _gods_ , the last decade had been good to her. Caramel-brown hair framed a deadly gorgeous face with high cheekbones, sapphire eyes, and _lips_. Why did Longbottom have _lips_ like that?

Why did Longbottom have shoulders _and_ hips like his every fantasy smashed together? Dear Merlin.

Neve assembled a tray and walked it over to the coffee table. No, _sashayed_ it to the coffee table, pert arse on display through her clinging robe. She turned, and Draco got a solid glimpse of breasts and an admirable bulge.

His breath left in an embarrassing whine. Luna’s hand slid over his lower back, and he straightened. Lace knickers were a terrible choice. No discretion at all.

“Staring, Draco,” Luna whispered, her thumb rubbing small circles on his naked back.

“Oh! Sorry! Right. Uhm.” He turned his back to Neve and focused on Luna. Her eyes flicked between the bite marks down his neck and shoulder, over the red marks and blooming bruises, and settled on his face, concern evident. “Harry was very accommodating, _ma biche_ ,” he murmured.

“Then what brings you to my doorstep naked and spent, love? It’s a bit alarming, you know.”

“Oh! I suppose it is. No, I’m fine. Quite good. But Hermione’s locked up on Level Two for smuggling contraband into Ministry Headquarters and-“

Draco froze and hazarded a glance at Neve, who was very obviously listening.

“And I, uhm, needed to _speak_ to someone. About things. Things about which we do not speak.”

Neve stifled a chuckle and settled in on the sofa with her tea.

“She knows I’m an Unspeakable,” Luna said. “Family is allowed to know, in case we go missing. Why did you need an Unspeakable, though?”

“Oh! For this.” Draco plucked the leather pouch from the hip of his knickers and handed it over. “Ron made it. Hermione was going to bring it to the Unspeakables, I think for Space Chamber research. But now she’s in a cell.”

Luna accepted the pouch from him, head cocked in consideration as she pulled the strings open and dipped a finger in. The black powder stuck to her fingertip and she held it in the light to admire the darkly sparkling spectacle.

“Curious,” she whispered, and popped it in her mouth. “Oh…”

Luna’s pupils seemed to melt, the whites of her eyes receding in their wake. She blinked glittering black eyes at him before turning her face to the ceiling. “Oh… Rowena’s rump.”

Neve hopped up from the sofa, alarmed. “What is it, Lu?”

“The stars are so bright!” She spun slowly, gaze heavenward. “And there’s the constellation Draco, always between the two bears, curling toward true North and never quite reaching it.”

Draco bit into his third muffin to hide a confused frown. Hopefully, that wasn’t a Prophetic statement. _Ursa Minor_. _Little Ursa_. _Ursella_. Hm.

Luna blinked rapidly as her eyes bled back to normal. “Oh, yes. This will be incredibly useful, _mon pignon_.” She turned to speak to Neve, who had drifted to stand behind her. “I’m going to pop into work. I’ll be home for dinner.”

With a crackle like fireworks, Luna was gone, and Draco found himself alone with Neve Longbottom. He chewed his mouthful of muffin slowly, not really tasting the chocolate.

“Rose bush doing alright?”

Draco swallowed thickly and shrugged. “Bare branches. Hard telling.”

Longbottom nodded. “For you, probably. I’ll pop ‘round and take a look at it next week.”

Draco nodded back, desperate for an excuse to leave. Neve took a step closer, voice like fast, deep water. A drowning force. “Bit awkward,” she whispered with a comforting smile.

“Mm hm,” Draco hummed, praying to every pantheon he wasn’t getting hard again. Lace fucking knickers. Terrible choice. Incredibly awkward.

“I’m going to ask her to marry me, Malfoy. I don’t know if that changes things for you. Keep it under your hat, though. Or… in your knickers.” She smirked, and it took a good, long moment for her words to sink in.

“Oh. Oh!” Longbottom didn’t give a fuck about Draco’s unwanted erection. She meant the awkwardness of his relationship with Luna. “I don’t think I’m going to have the time or energy to play those games with your wife. Your fiancé. Your… Luna.”

“Ah, alright, then.” Neve wrapped her arms around her waist, and Draco concentrated on not looking at her cleavage. “The other game?”

“I… could be bothered to hunt her, but I think my bedroom larder is well-stocked.”

Neve laughed and shoved her hands in her robe pockets. “Appears so, Malfoy. You’ve been good to her, you know.”

Draco smiled weakly back, unexpected warmth in his chest. “She’s _ma biche_.”

Neve nodded, and Draco stifled an unexpected sniffle, turned, and left.

——————————

Harry smelled like sex, and Hermione was _dying_ to know what they’d been doing all evening. Her knickers clung to her skin, and she shoved her hands in her trouser pockets in an attempt to adjust them. Adams shot her a withering glance and shook his head mockingly.

His condescending face blurred, and she blinked to clear her vision. It didn’t help, and she tilted her head. That didn’t make a difference, but he came back into focus. Adams’ nostrils flared, and he glared on a point in front of the counter, next to where Harry leaned over the dusty regulations manual.

“Unspeakable,” Adams said in stern greeting.

“Wolf,” replied a high-low timbre. “You’ve intercepted a delivery for Mysteries. I’ll take that now.”

Harry yelped and took a step back from the blur. Hermione reached through the bars of her cell in an attempt to touch the blur, but the hall was too wide.

Adams sputtered, but Harry spoke first. “If this stuff is on your departmental materials list, I would very gladly turn it over to you and _Incendio_ this paperwork.”

“It is,” chimed the nondescript voice. “I have the release and a verification sample.”

Hermione froze as a leather pouch plopped onto the counter. A familiar leather pouch with a big “W” pressed into the front. Harry stared at the pouch. His brow slowly furrowed as his lips turned down in a scowl. She smelled ozone as his back straightened. His whole body tensed, and his gaze burned a path over the floor on its way to her. Her breath came fast under his scrutiny.

Harry hissed through clenched teeth. “What’s in that basement, Hermione?”

————————————

Draco stepped out of the fireplace and swallowed thickly as his stomach rolled.

“Too many muffins, _mon lionceau_.”

Crookshanks chirruped a greeting from the balcony overlooking the downstairs. Draco tilted his head back to examine the room. It had become enormous. Empty.

With a wicked grin, he met Crookshanks eyes and melted into his feathers.

With a cursory stretch of his wings, he flapped enough to gain a little height, turned, and inelegantly landed on the railing of the balcony with a scrabble of talons. One golden eye focused on the cat, who glared back at him. Draco’s feathers flowed away, and he stepped down onto the granite floor with human feet.

“Unflappable feline, you are.” He reached down and scratched the cat’s head. “I think it will just be us tonight.”

Draco followed the waving ginger tail into the middle bedroom. Russet-hued light poured in through the windows on either side of the bed, and he paused to admire the design. He’d watched Ron putting furniture in the rooms, but hadn’t stopped to inspect it. Rather Burrow-like. A stack of books sat on the floor next to one side of the bed. One drawer of a bureau lay open, haphazardly stuffed with clothes. Cozy.

“ _Mon lionceau_ ,” he said, addressing his companion as they walked down the stairs together, “I believe I shall retire. Quite a day.”

His sheets were cold against his skin. Even Harry’s pillowcase was a chilly comfort, despite the scent of him. No, maybe not _Harry’s_ pillowcase. Just the one he’d used. Like Draco wasn’t his… whatever they were. Just the one he’d… No.

He curled himself around the pillow, grazing his lips over the cool fabric.

A poor substitute.

————————————

“What the _fuck_ was he thinking, Granger?!”

Harry wrenched his jacket off like it was on fire, and hurtled it in the vague direction of his bedroom. His shoes met a similar fate.

“I don’t know, _Potter_. Maybe he saw a useful tool and wanted to share it.” She rolled her eyes at his tantrum. “The bastard.”

“He _knew_ , Hermione! He had to have known! He did a year of Auror training! Why the fuck do you think he had _you_ take it in? A Muggleborn Wizengamot member? Plausible deniability and some measure of immunity.”

“No…” Hermione whispered, shaking her head. “No,” she repeated, less sure. Ron wouldn’t do that. Would he?

“Bloody fucking disaster,” Harry grumbled as he nudged past her. “Ginger wanker…”

Her stomach rumbled, and she considered her options as she watched him approach. Takeout menus stuck to Harry’s fridge caught her eye as he passed by it on his way to his bedroom. She still had his bank card, and a pricey Soho dinner sounded like the best petty revenge.

A whiff of something rotten caught her attention as she fiddled with the fridge magnets. Harry had probably neglected to clean out his fridge before moving to Wheal Elvan for three weeks. Neither she nor Ron had thought to open it during their visits. Probably a Petri dish in there.

Drawers slammed in Harry’s room as he grouched about. Cautiously, she cracked the fridge door open, breath held. Instead of slimy lettuce and moldy cheese, she was greeted by a round mouth lined with rows of sharp teeth and bare-knuckled, furry hands on severed limbs.

She gasped and slammed the door, but not before getting lungfuls of Quintaped stench. Coughing and wheezing, she made her way over to the window above the sink and slid it open. Merlin forbid Harry’s kitchen have an exhaust fan.

 _Shit shit shit._ This had to be Ron’s doing. Wand brandished, she opened the fridge door and whispered a barely-audible Vanishing spell. The limbs just sat there. Immune. _Shit shit shit._

Maybe she should just hop in the Floo and head back to Cardiff or Wheal Elvan, and avoid getting into any more trouble. It would look suspicious, though.

Harry re-entered the kitchen, an enormous mesh bag of laundry over his shoulder. He tossed the bag next to the front door with a heavy sigh. The fridge door shut softly, and she stepped away, expression carefully neutral.

“I’m sorry, ‘Mione. You didn’t know. Ron did. Or should have.” He stood in front of her, uneasy. “Dinner?”

Hermione relaxed against the sink, and he leaned into her, lips coming to rest on her forehead. Harry hadn’t noticed the awful stench. But was he right? Did Ron know AstraNox was illegal? Had he really used her background and status to his advantage?

“Hm, I was thinking curries, but if you-“

The Floo roared to life, and Ron stepped out with an exasperated sigh. He dusted his jeans off as he turned toward the kitchen. “There you two-“

Harry turned around, hiding Hermione behind him. “Ronald. Bilious. Weasley.” Harry drawled slowly, fingers resting lightly on the wand in his back pocket. “The drug kingpin of Diagon Alley.”

“Look, Har, I didn’t know that stuff would set off-“

“The _hell_ you didn’t, Ron! You passed a bloody written test on it!”

“I mean, I cheated on the-“

“You _what_?”

“I had a shrunken copy in my pocket, and I-“

Hermione hid a chuckle against Harry’s back and wrapped her arms around his waist. He relaxed a little under her hands. Of course Ron had tried to cheat his way through the written portion of Auror training. It was a wonder he hadn’t gotten kicked out. Officially, anyway.

“I swear to Godric, Ron, I’m done covering your ass. Don’t tell me anything else.”

“Fair enough. Got a contract for AstraNox handed to me in the Atrium while I was looking for you two.”

Harry stepped away from her, toward the fridge, and she and Ron exchanged a nervous glance.

Harry grunted in resigned approval and nodded. “Well, that’s good, at least. I can drink to that.”

His hand reached for the handle of the fridge door, and Hermione watched Ron’s eyes widen as he went for his wand. With a flick, the air pressure in the room dropped, bounced back, and shuddered. 

He’d Vanished the entire fridge. But not the contents.

Quintaped limbs flopped onto the floor in a gangly mess. Bottles of blood shattered in front of Harry’s feet as he stood, shocked, hand still reaching for the door. His hand dropped to his back pocket and his wand, and he turned slowly to Ron.

The two men faced off, wands brandished.

“You’ve got ten seconds, Ron. Ten fucking seconds to explain why there’s a dead Category Five beast in my mother fucking apartment, or I hex you till Hermione has to scoop your balls up off the floor.”

Ron blew a breath out between pursed lips. “Well, it started as hatching dragons for the reserve.”

“Uh huh. Also bloody illegal.”

Hermione slowly edged her way around the kitchen, well outside their potential line of fire. This was going to devolve the more Ron spoke.

“And we needed a way to get the eggs in and the hatchlings out, so Charlie and I… put a Floo in the Wheeze’s basement.”

“Uh huh. You’re a drug-dealing, Wizengamot-corrupting smuggler. Fan-fucking-tastic, Ron.”

Hermione watched Ron bristle at the mention of her. “I didn’t _corrupt_ anyone, you wanker.”

Harry wheeled on her as she came to stand next to Ron. His emerald gaze was all fury and power. “Did you know, Hermione?”

She nodded with a grimace. His power crackled in the air and rose the hairs on her arms. Harry turned back to Ron. “Drug manufacture, smuggling, controlled beast dealing. What else Ron? Crup-fighting? Maybe something tame, like arson and murder, to lighten things up?” 

Harry stepped forward, still ranting. “There’s the Blood Magic, too. But I was already sweeping that under the rug. That’s a whole lot of questionable shit, Ron. Makes me curious what else you’ve been up to.”

Ron’s free hand tugged her behind him as he squared off with Harry. “Least I don’t beat people up in bed, Harry,” he said softly. “I stopped by Wheal Elvan. Didn’t expect _that_.”

Hermione’s heart thudded against her ribs. Harry did like it kind of rough, especially compared to Ron. But then, so did Draco.

She peeked out from behind Ron. “Harry, did you leave him alone? Afterward?” she whispered, already knowing the answer.

Harry shrugged. “Yeah. You were in a fucking cell. I had to leave him.”

Draco’s quiet plea for her to stay with him their first night came back to her. _Just tonight? Try it just tonight?_

“Oh, gods, Harry. You can’t just fuck him and leave him. Especially not like that.”

Ron nudged her toward the Floo. “Parkinson was right, Harry, you are a shit boyfriend. Bloody hell.”

“Oh, _fuck you_ , Ron,” Harry spat, and his wrist whipped, flinging a Stinging Hex at Ron’s leg. “You’re a fucking criminal.”

Ron dodged and full-on shoved Hermione toward the hearth. “Go get Draco.” He pulled his sleeves up, left hand drawing his Crup-handled knife from his pocket. Turning back to Harry, he held his arms out in challenge. “And what’s the bloody Arse-end Auror gonna do about it?”

Ron gritted his teeth and whipped hexes at Harry, a wild grin growing as they traded barbs. Red and orange sparks skittered over the Quintaped blood-stained floor, snuffing out on impact.

Flames erupted from a corner of the futon, smoke billowing toward the ceiling. A Scalding Hex landed next to her foot and scorched a divot in the floor. She grabbed a handful of Floo powder in a shaking, sweaty hand, and flung it clumsily in the fireplace.

“Wheal Elvan,” she shouted above the sizzle and crack.

———————————

_It wasn’t a normal Seer dream. That was evident already, he thought as he looked around. The fact that he could control anything marked it as something new._

_The dinghy behind him knocked against the short pier. An ocean-going dinghy?_

_Before him lay a valley. Or an island? A verdant expanse of small hills and structures, raised above the ocean somehow. Like a soil-filled basin floating on the water._

_It smelled familiar. The cold sea air. The crumbling stones half-submerged around the shore. But it was sunny and lush, sprawling before him. Gravel crunched underfoot as he followed a path. Around a curve, the path passed through a wide arch. Thick bands of metal wove together to make a half-circle. Copper, gold, and silver glinted in the sun, black iron stark amongst them._

_Gold letters decorated the peak of the arch. “GRANGER”_

_Curious, he mused as he passed under it. Silver, gold, copper, and black iron._

_Before him lay a sculpture garden. No, he thought. A graveyard. But a beautiful graveyard._

_The valley was large, but it would only take a day to visit each monument in turn. Hills sloped from each direction to the valley floor, where a gazebo covered in vines beckoned. The vines felt familiar, and he decided that would be his destination._

_The path ahead split, four simple grave markers before him. Silver, gold, copper, and black iron again._

_The silver one was tarnished, the writing only visible due to decades, maybe centuries, of discoloration. A small, forged eagle decorated the top of the marker. On a corner of the placard was a quill, and at its point, the object of its work, the Mark. His Mark. A skull and snake flowing from the nib of the quill. “Draco L. Malfoy, 1980-“ the numbers after the dash were a blur._

_He gasped softly, surprised to hear his own breathing at all. His own grave. One of four. The first of four? The last?_

_The one next to it was black iron, but otherwise similar. Instead of a quill, this one had lightning striking a building. No, not any building. Lightning striking a crumbling Azkaban. He’d know that blocky structure anywhere. “Harry J. Potter, 1980-“_

_The gold one was next, also tarnished by weather and age, but still gleaming richly. This one had a delicately-etched globe cradled in two hands in its corner. “Spm. Mwp. Hermione J. Granger, 1979-“_

_The copper one was last, all verdigris patina, but still legible. In its corner, it had a building and a hammer. Not just a building. Wheal Elvan? But bigger? “Ronald B. Weasley, 1980-“_

_His gaze left what should have been a morbid sight to take in the field behind their markers. Hundreds. There were hundreds more. How could there be so many?_

_He stepped forward, examining the next row._

_“Dobrinya A. Malfoy-Granger, 2008-“ Granite, with a carved osprey on top.  
“Malusha A. Malfoy-Granger, 2008-“ Granite again, nearly solid black.  
“Felix C. Granger, 2008-“ Granite, with a Crup on top.  
“Ursella F. Granger, 2011-“ Granite, but with heavy swirls of quartz and a black iron bear on top._

_He shifted uneasily, not sure if he should stop and think, or gather what he could and mull it later. This wasn’t a normal Seer dream. This was Prophetic. He may not have much time left before he woke, so he made his way to the gazebo and familiar vines._

_In the distance, an elaborately-carved team of Thestrals decorated a grave across from one adorned with a rearing Abraxan. Who were these people, to have been memorialized so? Or who would they be? The birthdates on the markers rose as he walked. 2035. 2150. 2283. 2452._

_His hands shook by the time he reached the wood frame of the gazebo. It smelled familiar, and he stopped to take deep, steadying breaths. Rose foliage, aged wood in the sun, and a damp stone scent that was simultaneously comforting and confining. A cold embrace of the earth._

_A round pit sat in the center of the paved floor, wafting that wet rock dust scent. Iron bars covered the hole in the floor, but it was so familiar. Oddly inviting. Deja vu made him close his eyes and tilt his face upward. Vines dangled down through the point of the slatted roof; red-tipped thorns and silver rosebuds grew larger as the vines crept downward, creaking with their own rapid growth._

_He reached up and touched a thorn with his left hand, letting it dig into his skin. Letting it taste him. His tattoo responded in a roll of jade ink and silver blooms. The vine replied with a shower of silver petals._

_Petals blew in a gentle, skittering breeze around his feet, then swept into the pit before him. There was something he was forgetting. Something he swore he would never forget. Perfect darkness greeted him as he peered down into it._

_His own words flooded his mind, and his eyes fluttered shut._

_**Perhaps it ends here, my vignette.** _

_The Oubliette._

_His knees hit the stones before he knew he’d fallen, eyes wide and darting over the monuments, torn between horror and awe._

_The Azkaban Oubliette._

_Azkaban. This valley. This island._

_Azkaban Island reclaimed._

“Shh. Draco. Wake up. It’s alright.”

—————————————

“ _Fuck._ You shoulda been an Auror, Ron,” Harry groaned, splayed out on his living room floor. His jeans were singed through, his glasses were shattered, his futon was still smoking, and _damned_ if that hadn’t been the best fight he’d had in years. He licked his lips and tried to not enjoy how cathartic it had been.

Ron stood next to the sink, finishing off a glass of water as he grunted a non-reply. 

“Really,” Harry insisted, gathering his wits. “I haven’t had my ass kicked like that since the war.”

“Might have ended up Head Auror if I’d have stayed. Couldn’t have that.”

Harry huffed a laugh and looked at Ron through the one unbroken lens of his glasses. “You’d be better at it than me.”

“But it’d get in the way of all my piracy and shit, Har.”

Ron didn’t have a fucking scratch on him, the bastard. He’d put up some kind of Blood Magic ward over his body, and Harry had proceeded to get his ass sliced off, served up, and handed back to him like a bloody first year. No wonder that magic was illegal.

“Dunno if it really counts as piracy if you’ve got ICW friends across the pond. But the drugs… shouldn’t have done that. Glad it worked out, don’t get me wrong. But still.”

Ron snatched the menus Hermione had left on the counter and flopped down on the futon. “You can’t tell me you’d have known AstraNox was illegal if I’d have asked you about it.” He poked Harry in the ribs with a shoe. “Honestly. Rocks, Floo powder, and a gag gift from the store? And you know damned well I wouldn’t send ‘Mione in to take the fall.”

Harry took his glasses off and cast a repairing spell. “Yeah, I guess not. I just… fuck. I’ve already covered up a bunch of stuff. And my first day as Head Auror isn’t actually till Monday.”

“Doubt any of that was wrong, though. Illegal, maybe,” Ron pointed the handful of menus at Harry for emphasis, “but not _wrong_. Is that why you’re being such a wanker tonight?”

“Am not.” Harry laced his fingers behind his head, strangely content for a moment. “Maybe a little.” The floor had an awful lot of scorch marks. “Alright, yeah. Kind of a wanker. A hungry wanker.”

“Call us in something, yeah?” Ron handed the menus down to him, and Harry pulled his mobile out of his pocket. “Get extra naan.”

Harry flipped through the paper menus, settling on one from an Indian place down the block. “Chicken vindaloo for Hermione, korma for me, what do you want?”

“Eh, surprise me. Did you feed Draco before you left?”

“Fuck. I didn’t even think of it,” Harry groaned. “I _am_ a shit boyfriend, aren’t I?”

“I dropped off some muffins, so at least he hasn’t starved to death after you railed him senseless and dumped him.”

“ _Fuuuuuck._ How was he? I’m just going to order two kormas.”

“He was… I dunno. Kind of spacey. Bruised up, though, Har.” Ron leaned back on the futon, and Harry vaguely wondered if he should have Scourgified it after having sex on it.

“Uh… He kind of asked for that. Repeatedly.” 

Harry rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows. Weird time to start getting an erection thinking about how just a few hours ago, he’d been fucking Draco incoherent. And how Draco had been begging him. Pleading for it. _Harder harder harder._ His cock throbbed against the floor, and he pressed into it with a shuddering inhale.

“Still,” Ron grumbled. “At least feed him.”

“You’re your mother’s son sometimes, you know.”

Ron shrugged. “And you’re a wanker sometimes.”

————————————

 _Rober inter spinas_ greeted her as she landed in the Wheal Elvan fireplace. Eventually, she was going to ask Ron what it meant. Probably toilet humor, knowing him.

Somehow, she’d expected to find Draco sprawled on the sofa, pen in hand. Or possibly cooking something delectable. Instead, the main room at Wheal Elvan was dark and cold. She felt her way to the tray of candles on the dining table, and lit them all with an overenthusiastic _Incendio_ , melting them down an inch or two in a puddle of wax.

A soft rumble came from Draco’s bedroom. _Purring_ , she realized.

On tiptoe, she entered the bedroom to find Draco sound asleep, but whimpering softly. He clutched a pillow and Harry’s Cannons sweatshirt to his face. Crookshanks lay curled in a ginger spiral behind his head.

She set the tray of candles carefully on the ledge above the bed, in a clear spot that looked like it had been wiped clean by the sweep of arms. Odd.

A soft whine filled the space, and she examined the man before her. Her… Draco. The tipsy women who’d named themselves the Plaited Posse had used many names. Husbands, partners, lovers. None of them felt right.

The candle light cast a warm glow over his platinum hair, lending it an amber hue it ordinarily lacked. A golden tone in what was normally stark white. He lay on his right side, tattooed arm wrapped around the pillow and sweatshirt. Not just wrapped, but clinging to them. Harry had been an idiot to leave him like this. But it had been her fault.

Draco’s fingers flexed, digging into the pillow, and he whimpered softly. She reached down to brush his hair away from his face, and his brow furrowed, dreaming. His fingers clenched again, and she swore the flowers in his tattoo were an iridescent silver for just a moment.

Her thumb traced his jaw, and she whispered, “Shh. Draco. Wake up. It’s alright.”

His eyes fluttered, and he inhaled deeply. He blinked up at her as she settled in behind him, soaking up the warmth of his bed. Gods, how could Harry have left him? She’d have gladly spent the night in that cell to give him this.

“ _Ma chatte_ ,” he said hoarsely. “He got you out of the tree, then?”

“Mm hm.” She threw an arm over him and the pillow and sweatshirt. The makeshift Harry. “Were you having a Seer dream? I think your tattoo was silver.”

“Mm hm,” he hummed drowsily. “A strange one.” She sent a tendril of Legilimency toward him, probing, asking, but not demanding. “Not yet. I need to think it over.”

He lifted her arm and rolled over to face her. The right side of his neck and shoulder were covered in deep, scarlet and purple bite marks, and she felt her eyes widen. Of course Ron wouldn’t approve of this. She understood it, but Ron wouldn’t.

“He got you good, huh?” she asked with a slightly lecherous grin.

“Merlin,” Draco sighed. “So good, _ma chatte_.”

“Want to share?”

It was a bit of a risky request, but sharing their experiences with Harry had become a habit. He’d also shared some memories of Magnus, and she’d given him glimpses into her forays in Perth. It was an odd kind of bonding, but not one they had anyone else to share it with.

“Mm, not yet.” His eyes fluttered back shut, and he slowly sank into the pillows.

“You’re still a bit out of it, aren’t you?”

“Mm hm.”

“When Ron and Harry are done hexing each other, they’ll probably order curries. If they don’t burn Soho down first, that is. Sound good?”

Eyes still shut, he smiled softly. “Let Soho burn. Why are they hexing each other?”

“Well, one of them is a criminal, and the other is the Head Auror. One of them is a bit protective of you, and the other roughed you up a bit. One of them hid a dead Quintaped in the fridge, and the other tried to get a beer out.”

Draco snorted softly, grey eyes drifting open, twinkling in the candle light.

“What are we going to do with them?”

She pressed her lips to his, more to keep him awake than arouse him. “Love them?”

He sighed and rubbed his face against his pillow. “And each other.” He pulled his lips between his teeth, and she waited for him to speak again, but he huffed a frustrated breath instead.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Really,” he murmured, sliding an arm around her waist. “I just thought we’d have more time.”

“Before what?”

“Felix.”

She felt her eyes widen, even as she tried to hide her surprise. “Your dream?”

“Mm hm,” he hummed. “I’m going to do nothing but change nappies next year, I think.”

She snorted a laugh and kissed his nose. “Next year, then?”

“Apparently. Ready your loins, love.” His hand roved down to her ass, and skimmed the curve of it.

“Mm, Ron and I might have discussed it a bit already.” Hermione grinned and laid a peck on his forehead before rolling to sit at the side of the bed. “Let’s go eat and see if Soho’s on fire.”

“If we must,” he murmured grudgingly, sliding up alongside her.

She looked him up and down as she rose to stand. “Are you going to get dressed, or are lace knickers enough?”

Draco shrugged. “I think I’ve just seen centuries into the future. I don’t care if Ron sees my cock.”

——————————

Ron watched Harry order curries over the phone, still sprawled on the floor, and resolved himself to someday owning a mobile. The food on Diagon Alley was shite compared to Muggle takeaway, he had to admit. Even the staunchest Pureblood purist had a soft spot for a good chicken tikka or lo mein.

The fireplace behind the futon rumbled, and Ron turned to watch Hermione, then Draco, step out. Hermione was surprisingly clothed, given Draco’s near-total nudity. _Lace_ underpants, he noted. Not quite as fancy as his satin ones, but nice.

Hermione’s jaw dropped as she looked around the flat. Draco’s eyes swept the mess and settled on Harry, laying on his back, sliding his mobile into his pocket. In a slow, walking crumple, Draco fell to all-fours over Harry, who harrumphed a surprised breath, then melted into the floor under Draco’s weight.

The tension easing out of Harry was nearly palpable, and Ron frowned, disappointed with himself. Harry’s outburst would have responded better to hugs than hexes. Ron regretted not picking up on it when Harry was shooting at him and generally being a prat. 

Maybe the Boy Who Lived needed a Death Eater for a ballast. The floorboards themselves practically relaxed as Draco settled himself on top of the Head Auror. Harry’s arms wrapped around Draco’s naked back. _I love you._ _I missed you._ His hands slid up to Draco’s shoulders. _I love you._ _I’m sorry._

Ron blinked back tears and thought back to their exchanges the day he’d brought the _Vicus_ rings over. Harry and Draco had been so damned happy. They were too good together to be apart, but Harry didn’t seem to quite grasp that, obtuse twit that he was. 

He looked up to find Hermione watching them, a soft smile blooming. The sentimental Harpy. She caught his eye and winked, but he had no idea what that was about. He shot her a questioning look, but she just smirked like she was sitting on a pile of golden secrets.

“You look like the cat that got the cream,” Ron whispered over his shoulder to her, half-hoping she’d confirm his suspicions. More than half, really.

She shook her head and walked up behind him, leaning down to his ear. “He had a Seer dream about Felix, I guess. Sooner rather than later, apparently.”

Ron’s entire body twitched, and the turned to catch the eager heat in her brown and gold eyes. “But what about law school?”

She shrugged, grinning lips caught between her teeth. “Maybe it won’t matter,” she whispered. “He said next year. So, whenever you want, I guess…”

“Yeah,” he whispered back. “Yeah, alright. I mean, shit. Really, ‘Mione?”

She fixed him with a steady, soft gaze. “Yes, Ron. Just… yes.”

“Well, damn. I love you to bits, Harpy.”

She grinned, and tugged his face back with a grip on his hair. Her lips brushed over his. “I love you, too, Ron.”

———————————

Harry sat on his living room floor, cross legged, scrolling through the barrage of text messages and emails he’d gotten since noon. _Noon_ , he reminded himself. He’d gone to sleep next to a parolee and woken up to his… whatever they were, followed by brain-melting sex, rescuing a Wizengamot councilwoman, a duel with his best friend, and nary a bite to eat between all of it.

His stomach rumbled in sympathy, and he was glad Ron had told him to add extra naan to the order. He might even share it.

Draco, somehow at home in Harry’s flat despite his lack of clothing, or perhaps because of it, was arranging place settings on the flattened futon. Harry briefly considered adding a dining table to the flat, but immediately dismissed any investment in the space.

It was simultaneously embarrassing and fortifying what Draco’s presence had done. Harry had still been on edge from fighting with Ron when Draco came through the Floo and laid himself on top of Harry like a human duvet. But damned if it wasn’t exactly what he didn’t know he wanted. Somehow confining and liberating at the same time. Like a shelter of flesh and whispered affections.

Harry set his mobile down and made a mental note to tell the Aurors to text less and email more. So many tedious text messages. Far more interesting was the argument between Draco and Ron.

“But I’m a _Death Eater_ , Ronald,” Draco said, almost proudly, as he held out a flower-covered arm. The floral arrangement killed the threat of the Mark below it.

“I did actual illegal stuff _today_ , Draco. Provable. In court. The evidence is right over there.” Ron waved a hand in the general direction of the kitchen floor.

“Oh, big deal, disposing of a beast,” Draco said, nose wrinkled. “What are you even going to do with the thing before it rots?”

Ron shrugged and accepted plates from Draco, setting them on the corners of the futon. “Want the blood for wards?”

Draco straightened and ran the tines of a fork over his chin as he thought. “That might be interesting. Quintaped blood wards. Hm.”

“See? I’m dangerous,” Ron said, preening. “The Ministry’s Most Wanted.”

Draco rolled his eyes as he stepped in front of Harry and bent over to lay silverware on the plates. “Oh, please. I’m still the Ministry’s dirtiest secret.”

Harry ran a palm up the back of Draco’s thigh, and he leaned back into the touch. “You were right, Dray. The last free Death Eater was quite a catch.”

Draco turned to look at Harry around his hip. “Oh, you think you’ve caught me, do you?”

The buzzer sounded, and Ron bolted out of the flat with an overenthusiastic _Whoop!_ , leaving the rest of the plates behind. The door slammed behind him, and Hermione came back from the bathroom, thoroughly confused by the outburst.

“I think you’re very caught, Draco,” Harry whispered.

Harry’s fingers slipped under the lace edge of Draco’s knickers, tracing a slow line from his hip across his ass. The fine hairs on the backs of Draco’s leg stood on end, and a retort died on his lips.

Hermione caught Harry’s eye with a questioning smirk from the other side of the futon. He licked his lips and let his fingers slip lower, just shy of Draco’s inner thigh. With a wicked grin, Hermione crawled across the middle of the futon, nose to nose with Draco, who still bent over, silverware in his hands.

Harry rose to his knees behind Draco, letting his hands wander the expanse of pale skin and black lace in front of him. Soft, eager moans and the skim of slick lips came from in front of Draco. Hermione had seated herself in front of him, hands threaded through blond hair, holding him bent at the waist and ass on display.

“Very, very caught, Draco,” Harry murmured. “And I think I owe this arse an apology.”

Harry yanked the knickers down to Draco’s knees and reveled in the privilege as he palmed and kneaded the soft flesh in front of his face. He did look sore, Harry thought, spreading him open. Sensitive. The skin over the tight furl of muscle was pink and warm-looking. Still inviting, though. Maybe even eager.

Hermione giggled and pulled back from Draco’s lips. “Oh, show him where the big, bad Auror hurt you.”

“Very funny, _ma cha-_ ”

Draco gasped as Harry ran his tongue up the crevice of Draco’s ass, stopping to slick the flat of it around his hole. It was hot under his tongue, and Harry moaned softly. Soft, slick, warm, and yes, eager.

His hips leaned back toward Harry, and Draco’s feet spread. Practically begging for more. Harry grinned and wrapped a hand around Draco’s hardening cock. No teasing, no talking. Just a firm squeeze and straight to stroking.

Draco groaned, guttural and greedy, and Hermione swallowed it down. Her gaze caught Harry’s as she tilted her chin, all heat and possession in her eyes. _Ours_ she seemed to say, before her lashes fluttered, and she fell into the rhythm of Draco’s lips on hers.

The doorknob rattled, and Hermione was the first to turn, leaving Draco with parted lips, bent over the futon. Harry didn’t notice, tongue and fist still working as Ron shuffled in, plastic bags in both hands.

A gentle hand gripped Harry’s wrist, stopping his movement along Draco’s cock. Not Draco’s hand. Harry released him, and wiped the hand down his spit-slick chin before looking up from Draco’s ass.

“Oh,” Harry blurted awkwardly. “Ron. Hi. Uhm…”

Ron set the bags down on the counter and fished out a set of plastic utensils. He leveled a fork at Draco, who pulled his knickers up as he stood.

“My, how the tables have turned, Weasley,” he hissed sarcastically, still clutching a handful of silverware. “ _En guarde!_ ”

Harry snorted a laugh against the back of Draco’s thigh and shouted, “ _Expelliforkus!_ ”

Draco let out a surprised yip as a fork zipped out of his hand and embedded itself in the wall to the side, tines-first. A soft hum filled the room as the fork handle quivered.

“Huh,” Hermione huffed, watching the still-vibrating fork.

“Hm,” Ron hummed, examining the plastic fork still in his hand.

“I didn’t think that was a real spell,” Harry mumbled, resting his cheek against Draco’s thigh.

“Never doubt me in the kitchen, Potter,” Draco drawled haughtily.

Harry flicked him in the arse cheek with a finger, and he flinched with an appropriate chuff.

“Got you your _own_ korma this time. Prat.”

———————————

“Dray, do you seriously have to take up this much of the futon?” Harry groused, setting a styrofoam container on the floor. “Just sit up, you bloody feline.”

“No,” Draco shot back, lounging rather contentedly. Harry sat alone at one end of the futon, plate in his lap and Draco’s feet wedged under Harry’s thighs. Hermione and Ron sat on either side of Draco’s shoulders, each of them holding a plate, as well. “If I sat up, then Ron couldn’t feed me, and he’d have a maternal tantrum about it.”

“He’s right, Har. I did think about making him soup earlier. It’s just hereditary.” Ron ripped off an overly-large piece of naan and shoved it whole into Draco’s mouth.

Glaring, Draco wadded the flatbread into his mouth with his tongue, squinting in mock threat at Ron the entire time he chewed. “I’ll take it personally if you keep tearing the bread, Weasley.”

Ron hummed and nodded, but rolled his eyes at Harry, who cocked his head like a confused Crup. Smiling softly, Draco wiggled his toes under the Head Auror’s thighs as Harry shoveled korma in his face. 

He wouldn’t have really taken it seriously about the naan. Not this time.

How long had it been? Three months? A mere three months since Ron had held him at wandpoint, shredded bread, and made Hermione cry all because of his presence. And now he lay between the three of them, nearly naked, being hand-fed like a pet.

“ _Mon coeur_ , you should show them the pirate movie,” Draco muttered, turning his face to nuzzle against Hermione’s trousers. “You’d love it. There’s a swot, and a man of the law, and a pirate. No curry, though.”

Harry chuckled and pulled one of Draco’s feet out from under his leg, setting it in his lap with a squeeze. “What does that make you, then? In the movie?”

Draco wiggled his toes down into Harry’s crotch, ignoring a warning glare.

“The kraken, obviously. With the _mouth_ and all.” Draco very slowly licked his lips, letting Harry watch the slow path of his tongue over the slick pink skin. Harry’s breath shuddered, just a touch. His hips pressed into Draco’s foot, just a touch.

“Oh!” Hermione barked. “I might like to watch that, but do you know what I really want?”

“Cock,” Draco drawled. “Generally speaking.”

Ron nodded and shoved another, more reasonably-sized piece of naan in Draco’s mouth. “Seconded.”

Draco’s tongue wadded the bread into his cheek and mumbled around it. “Harry’s the one with the penchant for seconds.” Draco winked at Harry, who’d briefly frozen, fork in mid-air. “ _Tu es d’accord, mon cochon?_ ”

Harry cleared his throat and shrugged. “Ron said I needed hobbies.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Hermione sang, with a gratuitous roll of her eyes. “Know what I _really_ want?”

Ron set his empty plate on the floor and stretched, arms in the air. One hand ruffled Hermione’s curls on the way back down. “Tell us what you want.”

Harry sat bolt upright and nearly screamed, “ _What you really really want!_ ”

“No. Harry, don’t-” Hermione started.

“ _I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want!_ ”

“Harry! Shut! Up!” Hermione said between peals of laughter.

“ _I wanna! I wanna! I wanna!_ ” Harry halted and looked at Hermione expectantly, but she hid her face in her hands. “ _I really really really wanna zigzag aaahhhh!_ ”

Ron leaned down to Draco and whispered below sing-a-long volume, “What’s zig-a-zig? A Muggle thing?”

“I think they’re summoning a demon, Weasley. Or they’ve been Cursed.”

“ _If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends!_ ”

Hermione cackled next to him and threw a fork at Harry, who was still singing about group sex. 

“Is this Muggle courtship?” Draco looked warily up to Ron, who shook his head slowly, brow furrowed. 

Hermione gave up on silencing Harry and joined in. “ _They can last forever!_ ”

“ _Friendship never eeeeeends!_ ” they both warbled.

“ _Ma chatte!_ ” Draco shouted. He pressed his heel into Harry’s crotch for good measure, and the cacophony died down. “What do you want-“

“A foursome,” Harry blurted, cheeks pink and eyes shining. Everyone turned to look at him. “Obviously.”

“You were right, Draco,” Ron said with a nod. “Courtship.”

“I… was going to say I wanted ice cream,” Hermione murmured. “But… that sounds good, too.”

“But now I want ice cream,” Draco said with a huff.

———————————

They were starting to feel like home, Harry thought. The last plate drifted side to side as it sank through the soapy water to settle on the others, and he grinned.

 _His_ home. Not just _a_ home. They made a place feel like home. He hadn’t anything similar felt in nearly a decade. Not since he had a common room and a prefect, but even then, it hadn’t been a true home. 

Hogwarts was a home away from home for students who had homes to begin with. For him, it was foreign customs and manners and dress codes and assignments. Hogwarts was challenges and threats and victory and loss.

The Burrow had never been home, either. Not really. They’d tried, but he was the mis-matched mortar tuck-pointed between the stones of the foundation. Not that he was ever one of the stones, himself. Just someone they’d collected. A patchjob person.

This was… different. This felt… foundational. Like they were finding new footing together. Blasting down to bedrock. Something that was a home, and a family, and maybe more.

This was a safety net and a soft landing. This was the uncomfortable scrutiny of being seen with the bone-deep gratitude of being understood. This was a laying down of the sword and collapsing into bed.

A shiver of magic skated across his back, and he turned to see Ron _Accio_ the blanket off his bed. It settled on top of Draco, who looked to be asleep, closest to the television. Hermione’s head lay on his naked shoulder, with Ron curled against her back.

Whether or not they were actually watching the movie, he had no idea. It didn’t matter, though. Draco needed a nap, and Harry needed a minute. Maybe an hour or two.

Mindlessly, his fingers slicked over forks and plates. More dishes than he was used to, but that maybe he could _get_ used to. He pulled the plates up and rinsed them, setting them on a towel to dry. They weren’t as nice as the ones at Wheal Elvan. He dug around in the water for the forks, and wondered if it would be acceptable for him to steal his mug from Wheal Elvan. Drinking coffee tomorrow morning out of one of his mugs felt… wrong.

He wanted the lightning bolt mug with the cracks in the enamel that even magic hadn’t fixed. The cracks from when Draco had asked Harry to fuck him, and Harry had dropped it straight on the granite floor. The mugs in his flat were just… mugs. Trendy, perfectly acceptable mugs for a flat in Soho.

The water gurgled down the drain, and he dried his hands and turned to the fridge for a beer. Empty air and a dismembered Quintaped on the floor greeted him. Right. That.

“Hey, Ron,” Harry whispered. Draco was out cold, and Hermione looked like she was going to join him. Ron rolled onto his back and looked over. “What are you going to do about this?”

Ron scratched his beard and blew out a breath. “I am open to suggestions, Harry. Surely the Ministry has some kind of disposal protocol for magic-cancelling shit.”

“I guess I’ll buy a cooler or something,” Harry muttered. 

He walked over to linger next to the futon. Draco’s sleeping face had turned away from the movie in favor of burying his nose in Hermione’s hair. Her lips parted slightly as she sighed, arm pulling him tighter.

“I feel like I’m supposed to be jealous, you know?” Harry said softly. Ron grunted in agreement and tried to scoot over to make space, but the futon simply wasn’t big enough. “Like I’m supposed to demand all of him.”

“Or all of her,” Ron mumbled. He sat up on the edge of the futon and patted the empty space next to him.

“Yeah.” The futon creaked as Harry sat down, and he idly wondered how much weight it was supposed to hold. “You don’t, either, though?”

“Nah. I wasn’t joking when I said I thought I could use the help. But still, nah,” Ron said. He reached back to draw out a curl and let it spring back. “He kind of grounds her, you know? And you challenge her. It works.”

Harry chuckled at the idea of Draco, who generally made Harry feel like he was going to combust, being a grounding force for anyone. His laugh died in his throat as he remembered Draco laying on top of him like an emergency fire blanket earlier.

“Think we should wake them?” Ron asked.

“When the movie’s over.” Harry stood and grabbed his jacket off the floor, checking for his keys. “I’m going to see if I can buy a cooler down the block.”

Ron laid back down next to Hermione with a lazy smirk. “Bring beer.”

Harry scoffed. “Like I’d carry it back empty.”

—————————————

Pain shot down Hermione’s neck, and she felt a few hairs snap with the most recent yank. Her breath hissed in through her teeth. “Maybe a little more gentle? _Gentle_ men?”

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, shifting his weight on his knees on the bed behind her. “That was me. Sorry, ‘Mione. I’m just really bad at this.”

“ _Mon coeur_ , yours goes under mine. Now Ron’s. Now mine again. Good.”

Ron’s beard rubbed against the back of her nude shoulder, and goosebumps flowed down her arms. Her patience was starting to wear thin, and he’d probably noticed.

A _proper_ braid was apparently cooperative effort. The hair at the nape of her neck got painfully tugged again, and she winced. “Sorry,” Harry whispered again.

“It’s okay.” He sounded more put out than she did. “This is what we get for loving Purebloods, Harry.”

Ron chuffed indignantly, but Harry and Draco were oddly silent. Draco cleared his throat. “Hand me that tie, Ron.” A few more gentle tugs, and he declared their project finished.

She ran her hands over her head. Damned if it didn’t feel like a rather good French braid. Ron’s beard returned to skim over her shoulder again, and she reached back to run fingers through his hair. “How do you want it, Harpy?”

Draco crawled around her other side to lay himself across the head of Harry’s bed, all alabaster skin against white sheets. He idly thumbed a nipple till she caught his eye, and he languidly stroked a hand down his side. His fingers traced along the side of his groin, and his gaze followed hers. 

“I think she might like to watch first.” Draco looked up to Harry behind her. “What do you think, _mon cochon_?”

Harry’s breath rushed out over her exposed shoulder, and he laid his lips on her skin. “I think I might have already asked her to stick me between a cock and a soft place,” he whispered next to her ear.

Her nipples tightened as _that_ mental image came rushing back. Ron snorted a laugh against her skin. “Harry, buddy, that sounds like a great way for you to end with a bang. Quickly.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow and nodded. “He’s not wrong.” He nipped at his bottom lip, watching her carefully. Almost tentatively, Draco reached a toe out to brush her knee, which was followed by a nudge of Legilimency.

_Draco’s cock stretching her ass, his chest against her back. Ron pushing himself inside her, kneeling between her legs. Harry’s hard length against her lips. Draco’s fingers, one hand teasing between her legs, the other sliding up the back of Harry’s thigh, destination evident._

“Oh, Merlin,” she whispered. She blinked rapidly to clear the image to find Draco’s gleeful grin. Oddly innocent for having that on the mind, she thought. “And then…”

She reached down and touched his foot, pushing her own thoughts back to him.

_Hermione on her side, Ron in front of her, her hands stroking him. Harry behind and inside her. Draco gripping Harry and thrusting into him while he absolutely fell apart._

“Oh, _ma chatte_ ,” he whispered reverently. “He may never recover.”

She shrugged. “He’ll die happy.” Ron hummed an inquiry against her shoulder, and she nudged the images into his mind. His lips nipped at her neck, and his arms wrapped around her waist. He was half-hard against her back.

Draco extended an elegant hand, palm up. “Shall we, my loves?”

——————————

“ _Ablunguo_.”

She would have thought Ron was glaring angrily if he hadn’t also been breathing heavily. His eyes were fixed to the latex-clad cock she was slowly lowering herself onto as he stroked his own.

Personally, she thought the condom was overkill. Harry and Draco had exchanged a loaded glance she didn’t understand, and Draco had announced he wasn’t going to _Tergio_ his dick just so she could watch Harry suck it. Motivation, that.

Draco’s hands spread her open as she slid down, taking his length. She heard Harry let out a surprised huff behind her, and Draco blew a raspberry, she assumed against the inside of Harry’s knee.

Her hips settled against Draco’s and he slid his hands up to her waist, then her shoulder blades. She was supposed to lay back, but the hard length inside her was immobilizing. In a good way. Her fingers snuck down to her clit, not surprised to find her slit wet already.

“Ah, ah, Harpy,” Ron chided. 

He crawled forward to straddle Draco’s thighs, with hers spread outside his. A careful choreography. “Lay back, ‘Mione. We’ve got you.”

Earnest cornflower blue eyes watched her with a gentle nod, and she let Draco’s hands ease her down to lay on his chest. The pressure inside her shifted, and her hips wiggled to even it out. Was this even comfortable for Draco?

A whisper of cold Legilimancy traced her mind, and she let him in. Sensation rushed in, too overwhelmed for images. _Tight, hot, slick, oh gods, love, mine, ours, hers._

Her head settled over Draco’s shoulder, tilted back a bit, and he turned to lay an awkward kiss against her temple. “This is why we plait our witches,” he whispered.

Harry’s knees settled astride Draco’s head, and a pleased hum vibrated against her back. Above her, Harry’s sac hung heavy, but was quickly covered by Draco’s wandering hands. His thick cock had a clear drop glistening at the tip, and she very much wanted to catch it before it fell somewhere wasteful.

Ron’s warm hands rested on her knees, propping them up and open with her feet flat. An embarrassed flush bloomed on her cheeks as Ron simply looked at her. What must it look like to him? To see her open and wet and ready, but with another man stretching her other hole open already? 

She lifted her head to look at him. _Enticing_ , evidently, she decided. Ron’s fingertips carefully stroked his cock, and his breath came fast, eyes wide and unfocused. He swallowed thickly before trying to speak.

“You going to cast it, ‘Mione?”

Draco was slowly losing the battle to hold still, but had only given in to moving in small circles against her. His quickening breath against her ear didn’t help her concentrate on Ron’s words.

Draco’s questioning hum tickled her ear. He knew what Ron was asking about. The subtle motion inside her halted, and a long finger swiped the droplet off the tip of Harry’s cock and delivered it to her lip.

Harry’s fingers wrapped around his length as he spread his knees and lowered down, coming to rest next to her check. Green eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “Gonna cast it, Councilwoman Granger?”

Was she going to cast… what? Draco’s lips moved next to her ear, inaudible. _Contraception charm, ma chatte._

“Oh!” she blurted, hands already in motion. “I- right.”

Draco’s hands slid down Harry’s legs, along her torso, and gripped her hips as he thrust slowly up. Hermione fought a moan as her hands settled under her navel and she whispered the spell. Maybe for the last time in a while.

Ron surged forward, the head of his cock at her entrance before she’d even moved her hands. He was hot, and so hard against the soft slickness of her core as he pressed forward. Draco groaned under her, and Ron echoed him. “Oh, gods. So fucking tight.”

Her head fell back, Harry’s leaking tip grazing her lips as she parted them. Her eyes drifted shut as she felt them move. All of them.

Harry’s head slid between her lips as Ron’s length entered, filling her completely. Draco remained still under her hips, but she felt his hands moving up Harry’s body again. 

“ _Ablunguo_ ,” Draco whispered against her ear, and Harry’s cock twitched in her mouth as a low, guttural groan fell from him. “ _Ah, ma chatte_ ,” he hissed, too soft for Ron to hear, but possibly loud enough for Harry. “ _I’m going to get him so, so close… in your mouth._ ” He stopped to nip the edge of her ear. “ _I’m going to make him absolutely beg for it._ ”

Ron’s hips thudded against her, striking a rhythm. His hands swept up under her knees and lifted her ankles to his shoulders. A deeper angle, and not one he was holding back from. A pounding, urgent cadence that had her body tightening already.

Draco’s shoulder tensed, and Harry cried out above them, thrusting gently into Hermione’s mouth. She tasted precome on her tongue, and sucked him eagerly.

“ _Ah, and this is where we let him linger, non?_ ” Draco’s attention turned instead to her mounting climax, and he met Ron’s thrusts, both of them surging inside her.

“Oh, fuck, ‘Mione,” Ron panted, breaths growing ragged. His thumb grazed her clit, and the pressure in her body shattered. Ron shouted and ground himself harder against her. Her core gripped him as he moved, pulling his climax from him as he poured himself into her. 

She groaned her pleasure around Harry’s cock, stroking him with one hand as the other clutched at the mattress for lack of purchase. “ _Good girl_ ,” Draco whispered. “ _Don’t move._ ”

She hummed an awkward reply around Harry’s cock, but opened her eyes. Surprisingly good view of Harry’s arse, she thought, dazed. Draco’s hand was firmly between Harry’s ass cheeks, and he pulled it back to add a second finger before pushing back up.

Harry gasped and rocked his hips back onto Draco’s hand, pulling his length from her lips. She watched as Draco turned his hand and dug his thumb behind Harry’s sac. Harry made a low keening sound she’d never heard, and she slid her hips against Draco eagerly.

Ron slowly pulled out, still panting. He murmured soft curses under his breath, but were drowned out by the delicious sounds coming from Harry as he rode Draco’s hand with utter abandon. “ _Touch him, ma chatte, but barely._ ”

Harry’s length was impossibly hard in her hand, and he bucked erratically into her touch. “Ah, so desperate, _mon cochon,_ ” he said, loud enough for Harry to hear. He whimpered in reply, but didn’t stop moving.

“Please, Dray,” he panted, “please.”

“Not yet,” Draco said sarcastically.

“Oh, you _bastard_ ,” Harry groaned.

“Off, _ma chatte_. I owe this Auror some very delayed gratification, and I think you’ll like the show.”

Hermione huffed a laugh and propped her shoulders up, hands on the mattress behind her. A very content Ron extended a hand and pulled her forward, very carefully off Draco’s still-hard length.

Ron's face tilted down as she knelt in front of him, his come running down her thigh, and kissed her soundly on the forehead. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, and he squeezed her with a deep sigh. 

“Fuck, I love you, ‘Mione.”

“Mm,” she hummed against his chest, “I love you-“

An agonized groan cut her off, overlaid by a wicked chuckle. Ron looked over her shoulder, and his jaw dropped. She turned to follow his gaze.

Harry still knelt on the bed, Draco’s face lost under Harry’s ass, neck straining with his movement. Draco’s shoulders were propped on one elbow as the other hand held the head of Harry’s cock loosely, not moving.

And Harry… Harry Potter was a glorious fucking disaster. Sweat matted the hair at his temples. His hips bucked into the non-pressure of Draco’s floating grip. His chest heaved. A deep flush started at his navel and spread in a blotchy mess up to his shoulders.

Draco’s body tensed, and his shoulders pressed his face up. Harry keened again. His eyes glowed with furious desperation. A steady, faint electric crackle, like static from a carpet, filled the room.

Ron pressed against her backside, arms around her as they both watched, caught between alarm and arousal. “Ron,” she whispered, “should we have put wards up?”

“Maybe.” He huffed a laugh. “I think the Head Auror’s gonna blow.”

Draco slouched, face briefly reappearing between Harry’s thighs, but immediately replaced by his fingers driven up Harry’s ass.

“Not yet, Potter” he sniped again. Draco’s arm tensed, and Harry’s whole body arched.

“ _Jesus Muggleborn CHRIST_ ,” Ron hissed, hugging her tight.

“Mm hm,” she hummed. “Gonna blow.”

———————————

Draco’s cock tasted faintly of latex, and Harry didn’t give a flying _fuck_ about it. Not when he could turn him into a hot, flushed mess by pinning Draco’s hips to the bed and sucking him down into the back of his throat. Not much mattered beyond the growing taste of precome and Draco’s rising chant of _oh… oh…. Oh!_

Gods be damned, he’d been reduced to a livid sexual spectacle, and Draco would be, as well. Not that his own throbbing erection had been addressed yet.

“ _Merdsasssse…_ ” Draco hissed between clenched teeth, hips straining up against Harry’s hands. “ _Ça suffit!_ ”

Fingers wound into Harry’s hair, pulling him up sharply. Furious grey eyes met him. “You have made your point, _mon cochon_.” Draco glanced down at his hard length. “And now you may _have_ said point.”

Harry licked his swollen lips and smirked. His gaze and chin gestured to the bedside table, and Draco’s fingers groped for the drawer handle. He heard the crinkle of a wrapper as he glanced over at Ron and Hermione. 

She knelt, bum back on her heels, knees spread. Ron knelt behind her, chin on her shoulder and one of his hands between her legs. Her eyes were fixed on Draco’s cock, and Ron watched her watch Draco, equal amounts of heat in both their gazes.

Harry scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good show, ‘Mione?”

She didn’t answer, merely parted her lips, hesitated, and wetted them. Ron’s palm clapped over her sex with a soft smack, and Harry’s cock twitched at the sound. Hermione whimpered eagerly, and Ron smiled softly. “She only came twice, Harry. Better try harder.”

Draco cleared his throat, and Harry heard a mumbled _Ablunguo_ before he felt a cool whisper of magic skate over and up his arse. “Ready when you are, _mes choux_.”

Settling himself on his side, Draco patted the bed in front of him in invitation, and Harry’s breath hitched. He’d only been wanking to the idea of Draco inside him and Hermione on his cock for a month or so. It only took up… well, most of his idle thoughts.

His head landed on Draco’s arm as his back nestled against him. Long, cool fingers traced Harry’s exposed flank, and Draco’s lips grazed up the back of Harry’s neck, murmuring sweet nothings. " _Dans le cochon tout est bon._ "

Hermione’s eyes followed Draco’s hand and widened expectantly as he gripped Harry’s thigh and bent his top leg up, setting the knee in front of him. Harry sucked his bottom lip under as Draco eased the tip of his cock against Harry’s entrance. It was awkward, being watched while vulnerable, and Harry felt himself tense up.

Draco hesitated behind him and whispered behind his ear. “ _Stop?_ ”

“It’s fine,” Harry muttered. And it was, he thought to himself. He’d had sex in front of Ron plenty of times before Hermione had returned home.

Draco nipped the cusp of Harry’s ear and stroked himself along Harry’s crevice. “ _Glasses off?_ ” he whispered.

“Huh,” Harry huffed. “Yeah.”

He tossed his glasses in the general direction of his clothes, and Hermione and Ron blurred just enough that he could ignore them. _Knowing_ they were watching felt amazing. The thought of their eyes taking him in as Draco fucked him made his cock throb. But watching them watch him was distracting.

A slick finger circled his hole and pressed inside, and Harry pushed back into Draco behind him. “ _Eager_ ,” he whispered.

Harry hummed his agreement as the finger was replaced with Draco’s hard, slick length against his hole. A soft whine escaped him as he stretched around Draco’s cock. His hand found Draco’s hip and pulled him in faster, harder, than Draco had probably intended. “ _Greedy, mon cochon._ ”

A smooth hand traced down over Harry’s hip to grip his cock. “ _Minou minou minou_ ,” he chanted, and clicked his tongue.

Hermione snorted a laugh in front of them, and Harry realized his eyes had drifted shut. He was content to leave them closed and simply feel.

The mattress dipped, and a hot mouth latched onto the head of his cock, earning a surprised little gasp. Draco’s fingers pulled the skin tight down his length, and Hermione’s tongue worked over the sensitive, exposed flesh. His hips thrust forward into her mouth, sliding Draco’s cock inside him.

“ _Oh, gods_ ,” he whispered as he pulled back, driving Draco deeper.

Ron’s voice startled his attention away from the growing weight in his pelvis with each small movement. “Hey, ‘Mione, you’ve got about a minute till he’s done.”

“A minute is generous,” Draco murmured from behind his ear. Long fingers grasped Harry’s hip and a protest died on his lips as his prostate sent a jolt down the length of his cock, urging him forward into her mouth, but also back on to his length.

The bed bounced entirely too much for comfort, and Harry cracked an eye open to watch Hermione scoot closer, her back to him. He squinted to peer up the line of her side as her hips settled in front of him. Her shoulders leaned away toward the outline of Ron kneeling in front of her.

Harry moaned as her fingertips guided him into her slick heat, but his hips stuttered, torn between thrusting into her, and driving himself back on to Draco.

Soft lips grazed along his neck. “Allow us, _mon coeur_.”

Draco’s hand left his hip to grab hers, and Harry felt the cold, feathered skim of their shared Legilimency along his flank. 

She slid him deeper as Draco’s cock hit his prostate, and Harry's scream died with the tangle of his own tongue in a choking gasp. “ _Oh, fuck!_ ”

Like a firecracker lit on both ends, he lay pinned, smoldering as they stoked him in tandem. The tight stroke of her on his cock urged, _come come come_ as the insistent pressure thrusting inside him whispered, _go go go_.

Sharp teeth pressed against the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder. _go go go_

Soft flesh pressed against his hips. _come come come_

A whispered plea behind him and urgent pace inside him. _go go go_

Rising, muffled moans in front of him and clenching, questing core around him. _come come come_

Fingertips dug into his hip. _now now now_

Whimpered, breaking growl in front of him. _now now now_

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, _FUCK_ ,” Harry groaned, breaking into a sharp sob.

Harry gasped and let go, pleasure roaring in where tension broke as he came with them, thrusting into her as Draco drove into him and stilled. She moaned and pressed into him as he came a hard, throbbing, release. He tightened with each movement around Draco’s length as he came inside Harry, lips pressed against Harry’s skin.

Ron gasped from in front of her, followed by a wet slurp and dark chuckle from Hermione. “Godric’s fucking gonads,” Ron blurted, half in awe. “Bunch of glorious fucking sluts, the lot of you.”

Draco chuffed a laugh against Harry’s neck and sighed. Ron yipped in surprise, and Hermione chuckled again. “You’re one to talk, Ron,” she said, voice hoarse.

Hermione wiggled, and Harry grunted a half-objection. Moving seemed like a terrible idea. A bead of sweat ran down the back of his neck, and Draco _licked_ it. Harry squirmed uncomfortably, and they both took the hint, easing off and out of his spent body. “ _De la queue jusqu’au menton._ ”

Their skin pulled away, leaving him covered in a truly surprising amount of sweat, but too sated and lethargic to care. He rolled onto his back and let the sheets soak it up.

“I think we cooked this hog,” Draco said, settling himself along Harry’s side, head on Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s arm wrapped around him, and he leaned down to kiss the sweat-matted blonde hair under his chin.

“Mmm,” Hermione hummed, snuggling up against his other side, “he does look nicely-toasted.” Harry brought his arm up under his own head, and she laid soft kisses against his ribs.

The mattress dipped behind her as Ron laid himself along her back. His arm slid under her head, and Harry felt Ron’s fingers ruffle his own sodden black curls. 

“It’s about time somebody spit-roasted him,” Ron said. Harry could hear the chiding grin in his voice, and sighed as Ron’s fingers swept the hair off his forehead. “You dead, Har?”

Their words had only distantly echoed in, and Harry wasn’t entirely sure if he was falling asleep or not. “Mm hm.”

He sighed, deep and… done. His body sank into the mattress in a way that made him wonder if he’d ever fully put his weight on it before. As if he’d always held tension against it, and had just now truly lain on it. He sighed again and hummed, low and content.

Draco’s cheek against his chest pulled up in a smile, and his fingers tapped a rhythm back and forth over Harry’s chest. A cold, feathery touch whispered over his skin, and Hermione’s fingers skittered the pattern back along his ribs.

Draco’s fingers repeated it, more slowly, and hers followed, tap by tap. _Note by note_ , he realized with a soft smile. Their fingers danced over his skin until he had the pattern memorized, too. The pattern, but no music.

“What are you two playing?”

“New instrument,” Hermione said, tweaking his nipple. He grunted and grinned, lop-sided.

“Definitely a wind instrument,” Draco replied, licking his other nipple.

“Mm hm,” Hermione said in agreement. “With bellows.”

Ron chuffed a laugh and ruffled Harry’s hair. “Slagpipe.”

“Ronald Weasley,” Draco said, lazy pretention in his tone, “you’re awful, and I think I love you.”

“You, too,” Ron said with a shuddering yawn. “Kin.”

“Tosser.”

“Wanker.”

“Gentlemen,” Hermione murmured. “I propose a truce. And a bath.”

Harry drew a deep breath and stretched, muscles shuddering and lengthening all the way down to his toes. Draco nearly fell off the bed, squeaked and clung to him. “Scoot over, _mon coeur_.”

“Can’t. Wizengaswot, scoot over.”

“Can’t. Ron, scoot back a bit.”

“Can’t. Not enough bed.”

“Ugh,” Hermione groaned. “Fine. Let’s go home and take a bath.”

“Yeah,” Ron huffed, rolling away. “Never used a Floo starkers before.”

Draco turned and sat on the edge of the bed as Hermione followed Ron off the sheets. Draco stretched his arms above him before standing. He yawned and walked naked to the bedroom doorway before looking back. Harry was suddenly, strangely, alone in his own bed.

“ _Mon coeur_ , do you need to be carried?”

Harry’s glasses landed on his chest, thrown by either Ron or Hermione.

“Huh?” Harry grunted, shoving his glasses on his face. “Carried where?”

“Home,” Hermione said forcefully, eyebrows raised, like it was the dumbest question he’d ever asked. The _duh_ was implied.

Harry felt himself frown in confusion as all three of them turned to look at him.

“Harry. Buddy,” Ron said gently. “Do you _want_ to live here? Alone?” 

Ron gestured around the flat. His stupid flat they all hated. His impersonal quarters even he had to admit he disliked.

“I… No, not really,” Harry stammered.

“Come on,” Hermione called, tapping her foot as she waited in the living room. _come come come ___

__He slid to the edge of the bed and stood to follow. Draco smiled softly as they filed out of the bedroom. He turned back to Harry as Hermione threw a handful of powder into the fireplace._ _

“ _Mon coeur_ , let’s go home.” Draco’s hand extended out to him, and he strode forward to take it. _go go go_

__“Home?” Harry’s chest ached; a cracking, crumbling, breaking inside. A slowly snapping resistance; ripping lace and shredded bread and tumbling granite. Warmth flooded in; radiated heat of a hot spring and a bowl of broth and soft breaths against his skin. He blinked away tears as Draco’s fingers laced between his._ _

__“Yeah. Alright. Home,” Harry repeated thickly._ _

__Hermione looked at each of them in turn and spoke to the Floo._ _

__“Wheal Elvan.”_ _

____

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

A Rondel for the Supreme Mugglerump

Sugar and spice  
_Mes oisillons_ , go say goodnight.  
Sugar and spice  
Of course, I want that whole last slice!  
Really, I swear, it tastes alright.  
Of all the lies that I could write…  
Sugar and spice

True love cuts twice  
_Mes oisillons_ , hug Mamà tight!  
True love cuts twice  
The lot of us, my paradise.  
Hurry, _ma chatte_ , you’ll miss your flight.  
We know it’s far, but it’s so right  
True love cuts twice

Peace asks a price  
As families go, hardly a plight.  
Peace asks a price.  
THE FUCK YOU MEAN OUR KIDS GOT _LICE_?!  
Potter? Weasley? We leave no mites.  
See, Mamà didn’t need white knights.  
Peace asks a price.

DLM 2019 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Sort of.


	40. House Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shh, baby. Shh. It's okay.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

** A Trio of Triolets for the Three Fates **

Clotho

Finest wool from yearlings fresh-shorn  
The terrored bleats lend half the worth.  
To follow Death, yet be First-born  
Finest wool from yearlings fresh-shorn  
Pale substitute for she unmourned.  
Ah, child. ’Twas an auspicious thing, your birth  
Finest wool from yearlings fresh-shorn  
The terrored bleats lend half the worth.

Lachesis

What gnarled thread! So knotted spun!  
Impossible to meter out!  
This broken, mended skeleton.  
What gnarled thread! So knotted spun!  
Improper wound and soon undone.  
Weakly woven and too devout.  
What gnarled thread! So knotted spun!  
Impossible to meter out!

Atropos

This chopping block feels quite bereft.  
Granted, you’ve brought me other thread.  
And _you_ , footwork so nimble, deft.  
This chopping block feels quite bereft.  
Your avoidance? Practically theft!  
Charon won’t accept dead for dead.  
This chopping block feels quite bereft.  
Granted, you’ve brought me other thread.

DLM 2003 Azkaban  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

Dear Reader,

This work started with a letter to you, and it’s only fitting it should end with one.

Here is where you would expect to find shoutouts. The exclamation points. Here is where I would thank my team. I would thank my proofreaders. My editors. My plot-pickers. My family, my friends, and every one else rooting for me.

But the truth is, I wrote this alone.  
And that’s okay.  
Because you read it alone, didn’t you?

And so you and I shared this.  
The being alone.  
Together.  
All at once, but forever.  
Drifting our way home.

And I hope that wherever you are, you have people who maintain you.  
But if you don’t, I hope you have fond memories that sustain you.  
But if you don’t, I hope you have dreams that entertain you.  
But if you don’t, here’s mine. Contained. For you.

Vukovich

P.S. Where shall we go next? [Prequel/Epilogue Poll](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/T3HGBGF)  
[Subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vukovich/works) for alerts.  
Peruse the [Wheal Elvan Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Wheal_Elvan)  


P.P.S Don't be a stranger.  
Message me on [Tumblr: Vukovich](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/)  
[Email me.](mailto:riley.vukovich@gmail.com) Really. It's cool.

********************************  
From “Writings in Exile”  
By D.L. Malfoy  
*********************************

Bed Strangefellows

A ponce, a swot, a ginger, a disaster  
Walk into a bar in south Gloucester

No, no. Patently absurd!

But they love each other.  
And one’s a _bird_.

DLM 2021 Wheal Elvan Truro  
********************************  
Published and distributed by  
Flourish & Blotts, 2021  
*********************************

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me comments. Please. Holy fuck. It's literally the only way I know anyone reads past the first chapter.
> 
> And I'm a praise slut.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://vukovich.tumblr.com/) or Discord as Vukovich.


End file.
